


Worlds That Turn On Their Own

by RemainNameless



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU after s2e6, Angst, F/M, Like MASSIVE ANGST, M/M, Pining, Stiles-centric, dubcon, future!fic, long fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-10 16:10:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 54,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/468181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RemainNameless/pseuds/RemainNameless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Stiles had left Beacon Hills, he'd done it with every intention of never coming back. Ten years later, he finds himself forced back to his hometown. Of course, it's not long before things are just as they had been before -- that is, falling headlong towards disaster, and this time, stopping it isn't really an option.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from James Vincent McMorrow's "We Don't Eat".

When he sees the number flash up on his phone, Stiles grabs a cigarette preemptively. His dad doesn’t call. Not unless it’s his birthday or a holiday. Something’s up. Experience has taught him better than to hope for something good.

“Hey, Dad.” He winces, unable to come up with something better. He sounds awkward. Wrong. Stops himself from talking by taking a drag.

His dad doesn’t seem to notice. “Hey, Stiles. How’s it been?” Courtesy. It’s overrated. 

“Fine. It’s been fine. What’s up?” 

“Uh….” It isn’t like his dad to hesitate, to mince words. Something’s wrong. “I’m fine, alright? Just…I’m in the hospital right now.”

Stiles is suddenly very glad for the cigarette. Sucks on it like it’s keeping him alive. It might be.

“It’s okay, I’m alright, I just had a little— Well, okay, I had a heart attack. But I’m alright. I’m fine. I just…they told me to tell you, so I’m telling you. Just a heads up. I’m fine.”

“How fine? Do you need me to….” He can’t finish that sentence. Doesn’t want to. Doesn’t know how. 

“I’m alright. Just had a little surgery. I get to leave here tomorrow.”

“But you’ll be in bed for a few days, then. You’ll need someone to help you out. I…Should I come down there?”

“I should be fine. Melissa said she’d drop by with dinner until I’m up on my feet again.”

Stiles takes a long drag, thinking, forcing himself to make the decision. “I’ll come down. I should be able to take a week or two off. I’ll book a flight.”

“No, you don’t have to—“

“Yeah. Yeah, I do. I’ll see you soon, okay?” 

“Thanks. You’re a good son.” 

_No, I’m not_ , he thinks, but he hangs up before his mouth can form the words. 

He sits in silence in his living room, smokes through half his pack steadily before he realizes that he actually has to ask for the time off, has to book the flight for the morning online, gonna cost a shit ton, has to pack, has to ask Randy next door to take care of Remus. So much shit to do, and he doesn’t want to handle any of it. Doesn’t think he can. 

In the end, he finishes the pack, his last until he gets back, and gives up on sleep sometime in the early hours of the morning. It’s all useless anyway. He’ll be in hell in twelve hours, no use fighting it.

 

It takes an hour to get to town from the airport, and some small part of him is thrilled that he has to use GPS, that he’s forgotten the route. Not that it had been familiar in the first place.

The GPS directions take him through the woods, and that makes the hairs prick up on the back of his neck, but it’s okay, the rental car isn’t something they’d know, and his scent must have changed by now. There may be ghosts in those woods, but none of them will be able to haunt him. None of them will even know he’s here. He can be the ghost, then, the specter that winds through the town it used to know, trapped by memories. 

His knuckles stand out white against his skin, shift when he moves his hands, ripple in a way that always makes him think of teeth and fur and red eyes. 

But then he’s out of the woods and driving through the place he used to think of as home, still catches himself thinking of as home, past old haunts, the school, still standing though a part of him had been sure they’d burned it down they’d passed through so fast. The shadows here, standing out sharply against the mid-morning light, they call. Sirens from a time he’d worked long to push out. 

The hospital looks the same, eerily so, and he tries to pretend he doesn’t have a thousand memories of being in that waiting room, of sleeping on those chairs, shaking in fear. He draws up to the nurses’ station, a familiar face behind it. A girl he went to school with but he can’t, for the life of him, remember her name. 

“May I help you?”

“Yeah, I’m looking for Sheriff Stilinski?”

“Are you family?”

“Yeah. His son. Can I see him? Is he alright?”

She nods. “He’s recovering very well, don’t worry. Room 104. I can show you there?”

“No, it’s fine. I know my way around.” He’d told a joke once to some of the guys down at the shooting range, about how you know it’s bad when you know your way around the hospital. They’d laughed, thought he was being clever and not reminiscing. He’d let them think that. It had been easier.

He’s halfway there when a familiar voice stops him.

“ _Stiles_? Is that you?” He turns, grinning. She’s aged a little, but still beautiful for a woman her age who’s been through what she has.

“Guilty as charged, Mrs. McCall.” The hug she wraps him in smells like it used to, like childhood. He laughs in spite of himself, then picks her up and spins her around because he knows it’ll freak her out. 

“Jesus, Stiles,” she says when he puts her down. “You’re bigger than I remember.” Her hand is warm against his cheek. “You look…settled. Like you fit in your own skin. It’s a good look.” She smiles, breaks into a small, embarrassed laugh. 

“Well, you look lovely as ever. If I were a few years older, I’d sweep you off your feet in a manly fashion.” She chuckles at him, tapping his cheek. 

“You can certainly try.” The look she gives him is the one that made him love her, back when he was a gangly kid, and the one that made him miss his mother the most: _unadulterated affection_. It’s staggering.

“I should go see my dad. Is he being stubborn to all the nurses? I know how he gets.”

“Nothing we can’t deal with, but the doctor’s ready to let him go. I’m sure they’ll let you take him today.”

“Great—“

“How long are you staying for?”

He sighs. “As long as I need to, but probably not more than two weeks. My boss is understanding, but not _that_ understanding. You know how it is.” 

“Yeah. Well. You should come over for dinner sometime while you’re here. Scott and Allison and the brood come over Sundays.” He manages a weak smile and nod, but can’t make words. Doesn’t know how. “Here, let me show you to his room.”

It shouldn’t feel like a punch to the chest to see his dad in a hospital bed, but it does. It really does. It knocks the wind out of him. 

“Stiles! You got here sooner than I thought you would.”

“Yeah. Uh. Time zones. All that. How’re you holding up?”

“Great,” he says, like he knows that Stiles will pretend he doesn’t know he’s lying. They barely know each other anymore, so how he knows that much is almost strange, but they’re good at lying to each other. Or at least good at pretending to believe each other.

 

In the end, it turns out that the doctor doesn’t want his dad to leave until after lunch, after he’s had some rest, the last bit said with a pointed look in Stiles’ direction. So he leaves. Takes his dad’s house keys, figures he’ll buy some groceries, make sure the house is nice for him to come home to. It’s not because he needs a moment there to himself, to take it in again with no one watching. Not entirely. 

 

It’s weird, being at the grocery store. The set up is almost exactly the same, like he never left, like he’s just hopping over to get some snacks or Easy Mac for dinner. Like he’s a kid again. 

In the aisle with bread and pasta, he sees her. Or at least he thinks he does. He isn’t sure. The hair’s the right color even if it’s short, above her shoulders, not long, like he remembers, and her build the same, just about. But it might be a stranger, and if he assumes, it’ll be weird if it _is_ a stranger. So he shouldn’t approach. Not that he really wants to. But he’ll keep glancing over, pretending to look at farfalle, trying to figure out if it’s her or not until—

She turns his way, putting a loaf of bread in her cart, then looks up. Sees him. Stops. Grins with dimples. He never really thought he would, not this much, but he’d missed her. 

“Hey, Allison.”

“ _Stiles Stilinski_. You gonna stand over there, or are you going to come give me a hug?” He smiles a little, taking her in. Notices the swell of her stomach. _God, that’s surreal_. But he makes his feet move, into her open arms. She squeezes him tight, like she thinks she might lose him. Then backs away, looks at him. Shakes her head. She’s still beautiful.

“It’s been a while.”

She laughs at the ridiculousness of it. “Yeah. Yeah, it really has. I…I just can’t get over it. Seeing you in the flesh. It’s crazy.”

He hopes, hopes hopes _hopes_ , she somehow doesn’t remember that he didn’t come to the wedding. Didn’t come see when the kids were born. That he cut her, cut _them_ , off entirely, like a crushed limb.

“Well. Know that you’re not going to be able to escape coming over while you’re in town. It’s happening, whether you like it or not.” She gives him a stern look that breaks into a sweet smile. “Jeez, what brings you to this neck of the woods anyway?”

“My dad. He, uh, had some health problems.”

She smacked herself in the forehead. “Crap, yeah, I heard about that. I’m sorry. Melissa said he’s doing alright, though?”

“Yeah, no, he’s doing better than expected. He’s just not supposed to do too much, so I’ll be helping him around the house for a little while, that kind of thing. Just a week or two, at the most.”

“Well.” She smiles brightly and nods, then starts digging around in her purse. “Here. Take my number. Call when you’re available. We’ll set something up. Okay?”

“Yeah.” He nods once, feeling like he’s on the edge of a cliff. There’s a question hiding behind his lips that’s ready to come out, but he won’t let it. Can’t. Not yet. He isn’t ready. 

But Allison isn’t stupid. “Lydia and Jackson came back, after college. Danny didn’t, but he keeps in touch, visits a couple times a year. The rest, well, they’re living at the house. We still get together every other week.”

“Don’t tell them. I mean, Scott’s okay, but the rest…I’ll seek them out. I’m just not quite there yet.” 

She nods, like she might actually understand, even though that’s not possible.

“Did Jackson and Lydia…?”

“They…they have a little boy, but the marriage didn’t stick. You know how they are. But they’re civil now.”

“Well. That’s. Good.” He shuffles a little, awkward. “So are you…you know?”

She smiles, shrugs. “Yeah. Pissed my dad off, but he understands. And it’s easier this way. Scott doesn’t have to worry about me, my dad doesn’t have to worry about me. It works.” He sighs, feeling like he’s got no control, like it’s all slipping away through his fingers. But then, it usually is.

“I used to think it was a dream sometimes. That I’d made it up in my head, like this giant trap of bad luck and bad decisions and everything gone wrong.” She touches his shoulder, gentle. Rubs her thumb over his collarbone. Like he needs consolation. Probably does.

“I know how hard it was, _believe me_. But—“ she shrugs “—things have changed a little. For the better. It wasn’t always like that. After you left…well, it wasn’t good. Not for a while. And it’s not your fault, I’m not saying that, but it was…interesting. For a little while. Some of dealt with it better than others.” And all of a sudden, like a flood, like a forest fire, he just wants to _ask_. To ask everything that he isn’t ever going to ask. To ask about Derek, how he handled it, even though the thought, the probability, of him barely even noticing his absence is just too raw, even still. So he can’t, not if he wants to stay on his feet, keep breathing. Can’t do it. Can’t ask. “But we’re all a big family now. It’s nice. It really is. We’re meeting tomorrow night. You should come.”

“No, I…I can’t. Not really there yet, you know? But I’ll see everyone in time. Just. Not right now. I have to get my dad settled. That sort of thing. I can’t yet.”

She looks at him for a moment, evaluating, then says, “How about this: Scott and I will make dinner and bring it over to your place? You can meet everyone, get to see Scott, and it saves you the trouble of having to cook.”

“It wouldn’t be right, I mean, that’s a lot of effort—“

“Then make a salad or something. Okay? We’ll come over around 6:30? Can’t go too late, with the girls and all, but how does that sound?”

He shrugs, defeated. “Yeah, sure, I guess.” She brightens, grins, leans in to kiss him on the cheek.

“Good. Then we’ll see you tonight. Great!” He laughs, face tired, and turns back to the pasta as she rolls her cart away. 

It’s a little bit too much to handle, but it could have been worse: she could have been Derek. He could have had his own heart attack in the grains aisle.

 

He doesn’t mean to, he doesn’t, but he ends up falling on his old bed, burying himself in his pillows because he _misses_ this room. This life. Just a little. So he breathes in against his pillow, swallowing in the smell. Earth and dust and laundry and a hint of something else, maybe leather. He doesn’t remember the smell, not exactly, probably because it’s been so long. Maybe because of what it means. Because the only leather he can think of being around is a jacket, one he may have stolen back when he thought they were playing a game between the two of them. When he’d sneak off with the jacket so that sometime in the middle of the night, Derek would climb in his window to take it back, would sometimes lay down next to him for a while, a pack thing, he’d realized later, but he’d thought it was something else. He’d mistaken a lot of things back then.

But yeah, his bed still smells like Derek, still makes him ache for it, fresh. How easily it all comes back, like it never went away. But he’s not going to think like that, that’s not a good idea, not if he wants to survive.

 

He isn’t really sure what he’s doing, but he guides his dad by the arm, gingerly, to the couch. He doesn’t know how gentle to be, how much independence to give him. Just sits him down on the couch, finds the remote, and goes to get him something to drink. Vegetable juice, he thinks. Something healthy. When he comes back into the living room, Stiles sits down beside his dad, feeling a little out of place and right at home.

“I ran into Allison at the store,” he says. “She and Scott want to come over with dinner and the kids. If you’re not feeling up to it, I can call—“

“I always have time for my honorary grandkids.” Stiles doesn’t know if he should be ashamed, if he should feel replaced, or if he should be happy. There’s no manual for this, but God, does he need one. “I’m glad you’re here, you know. It’s time you came home.”

“Yeah. Maybe so.” 

He's lying, but at least this time it sounds convincing.

 

They don’t knock, probably because he and Scott never knocked at each others’ houses, but it’s a quick jolt when he hears the door open and an all-too-familiar voice yell.

“ _Stiles_?! Where are you? Don’t think you can hide from me!” Stiles is about to head out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel, just in time to get wrapped in a hug. God, it’s _Scott_. They’re laughing and they’re crying in each others’ arms, shaking with it, and yeah, Stiles had missed this. Had missed _him_. Best friends, always were, always would be, and nothing was going to get in the way of that. Never thought it would just come rushing back like this.

It’s a few minutes before they let each other go, and then they just grin at each other. Stiles feels at least a decade younger, like everything’s back in place. 

“I’m half-tempted to kill you, you know. For staying away so long. You’re going to have to work really hard to make it up to me,” Scott says, but his grin hasn’t fallen off yet, not until he remembers something. “Jeez, sorry, you have to meet everyone! Come on.” He tugs Stiles into the living room, where his dad is nearly being attacked by three beaming girls. Scott picks up the youngest, around two, if Stiles remembers the card right. 

“So. This is Noelle. Noelle, this is your uncle Stiles. Say hi.” The little girl waves timidly, just curls her little fingers at him. She’s got dark brown curls and someone’s dimples it kind of kills him how cute she is. Scott holds her on his hip, turning to the other two. “So that’s Jo and Nat. Nat’s six, and Jo turns five next month. Hey, Jo? Nat? Come meet Stiles.”

They climb off the couch, falling a little.

“What’s a Stiles?” the bigger one asks. 

“ _This_ is a Stiles. He’s your uncle. Mostly. Just like Aunt Lydia’s your aunt but not really.”

“Are you pack, too?” she asks, and Stiles freezes. His dad. What’s he going to think that means? What’s he supposed to think?

“Yeah, Stiles is pack too. He’s just been gone for a little while,” Scott says, and Stiles is pretty sure he chokes on his own spit. Since when is he pack? What? Besides that, his dad—

His dad looks like absolutely nothing is up.

_Well_. 

“I like him, but he’s not very scary. Why aren’t you scary?” She just looks so damn _earnest_.

Stiles laughs. “I’m not a wolf, that’s why.” 

“Me neither. Mommy says when I’m older maybe, but I think it’s a yes-maybe, which is really cool because I wanna be a wolf real bad.” Stiles grins at her. Youth and optimism and naiveté, all wrapped up behind dimples and a smile. And a little bit of a motor mouth.

“No reason to rush into it.” He ruffles her hair, looking up at Scott. “How’d she get my talking genes?”

Scott makes a face. “I have no idea. We’ve been wondering the same thing since she opened her mouth for the first time. Jo’s a little shy, though, aren’t you, Jo? It’s okay. Stiles is nice. He doesn’t bite, I promise.” Jo comes out from behind Allison’s legs a little, so Stiles waves. Allison, meanwhile, looks a little harried, with three casserole dishes in her arms and no way to move without tripping over the girl holding onto her. 

“Here, let me take these into the kitchen. I’ll set the table.”

“Thanks,” she says, offering a smile, then bends down to pick up Jo with a little grunt. “You’re getting so big….” He hears her say as he goes into the kitchen. They sound so much like a family it’s almost terrifying. 

 

Fifteen minutes later, they’re all sort of around the table. The fact that his dad has a high chair makes him wonder how often they come over, but he tries not to think about it; tt only makes him feel guilty. 

They look like a family, though. Happy. Jeez, they’re happy. It’s ridiculous. Ironic, too. Stiles ran away so he’d at least have a chance at happiness, and here they are, blissful though they never left and he’s the one who’s miserable. Of course it works like that. Of _course_.

“So, jeez, tell us what you’ve been doing,” Scott says, rustling him from his thoughts. “We haven’t heard from you, like, at all. You could have joined a circus for all I’d know.”

“Well.” He shrugs. “Not a whole lot to tell. Went to college. Changed my major three times before ending up with a degree in Criminal Justice. I’m a detective now, actually. Sort of recent. Just got promoted a year ago, but—“ he offers another shrug “—not really much to tell.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Allison asks, cutting up Noelle’s chicken tenders. 

“No. Uh, not really… _with_ the ladies, you know?” 

Scott grins, nodding. “I had a feeling. Got a boyfriend?” His dad might be a little out of it on pain meds, but Stiles still sees him tighten his grip on his fork. 

“No. Not for a while. Last time…didn’t go so well.” He looks at the kids, making it clear that it’s not something he can talk about in front of little ears. His dad is still a little tense. Stiles _knew_ that he shouldn’t have told him, and technically, he didn’t, not really, because technically, Grace had been the one to call, because she’s a meddling meddler who meddles. In the end, he hadn’t had a choice. Had barely convinced his dad not to fly up, actually. Mostly by lying. It had been mostly his fault, anyway, for being attracted to overly-possessive nutjobs. 

“I’m sorry.” Yeah. Stiles is sorry, too. Sorry that he’d had to change his number, move to the other side of the city, and still had panic attacks a whole year later, so there’s that. 

“Who knows. Maybe you’ll get lucky and find someone here in town,” his dad says, and Stiles grimaces. That would work out _so_ well. What a _great_ idea. 

“Yeah, maybe,” he says instead, biting the inside of his cheek. “So. What’s been going on here?”

It’s a diversion, but he still listens to some of it. Tunes out what doesn’t matter to him, but some stuff filters through. Finstock is still coaching. Danny’s apparently a pretty popular blogger. Erica tends bar and is still making fools of most of the men in town, though she and Isaac are still kind of a thing. When they get that far, Stiles reroutes the conversation, afraid of who they’ll talk about, what they’ll talk about. Fuck, for all he knows, Derek could be _married_. Or whatever the werewolf equivalent is. Probably. And that’s exactly why he’s not going to ask about anything that could be considered even vaguely relevant to Derek. Self-preservation. 

 

Later that night, the girls are all on the couch with Stiles’ dad, a kids movie playing softly in the background even though all four are asleep. Stiles is trying to clean up. Allison’s taking out the trash for him because she’s an angel. But Scott’s trying to corner him. 

“You okay?” he asks, eyes set on the other room. 

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” Stiles sets a plate down gently so it doesn’t make any noise. He can avoid this conversation, he can avoid—

“You’re a little…drawn. I dunno. You used to bounce around. I just—“ he shrugs “—I’m not used to you being quiet.”

Stiles looks at him, torn between telling him the truth and lying. “I’ve had some experiences, I guess. Some ugly stuff. On the job. Some, off. Life, you could say.”

“What happened?”

Stiles shrugs, turning back to the dishes. “I’m not a good judge of character. Or I was, but I didn’t listen to my instincts. Made some stupid mistakes, paid for them. But I’m on something of an upswing now, so it could be worse.”

“This is your upswing? Not— That sounds rude, I just meant, you know, I want you to be happy. You don’t seem happy.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t directly affect the length of prison sentences in the state of Minnesota, so there’s that.” He doesn’t even realize until Scott’s expression that he’d said it. It had just fallen out. And now Scott’s alternating between concerned and shocked, and _that_ is just too much to deal with. “My ex had some issues. He didn’t resolve them well. But it’s fine now. I’m fine now.” He knows he sounds like an abuse victim, even though he doesn’t think he counts, not really. He’s ashamed of that. That he barely even had a reason for the total freak out he’d had. For all the Xanax he’d popped. For the nightmares.

“Alright. Whatever you say.” 

Scott needs to leave. Stiles’ control is slipping. Something’s gonna come out soon, something ugly, and he’d prefer it if no one sees. 

 

After Stiles helps his dad to his room, he sits on the edge of the bed, weary, but he has to find out something before he can sleep.

“How long have you known? About Scott and Allison and the pack?” he asks, hoping it only sounds so heavy to his own ears.

“A few months after you left town, there was some trouble. A new werewolf from a few counties over ended up by us. Went a little crazy. We thought it was a mountain lion, of course, until it attacked me. Or tried to. Derek and Scott were there, put the thing down. I made them tell me everything. Whole bunch of things made a whole lot more sense after that.”

“I…I’m sorry. I always meant to tell you, but I never knew how.”

His dad sighs a little, clearly wanting to sleep. “I wouldn’t have believed you if you’d told me. Would’ve thought you were spinning bullshit to distract me or something. Seeing is believing, I guess. Now are you gonna let me rest or what?”

“Yeah, no, of course. Sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He ends up on the couch, soaking in self-loathing. His dad finds out about the most important thing of his high school years from someone else. _He_ was supposed to have been there. That was supposed to be _their_ bonding moment. What else had he missed out on? What other memories was he supposed to be in, but isn’t? 

He’s not a part of this world anymore. He doesn’t have a place here anymore, and it had been his choice in the first place. He’d cut himself out of these people’s lives, so what right does he have to feel lost and wrong here? No one _made_ him leave, not really. Theoretically, after everything that had happened, he could have stayed, could have just avoided Derek until it was all fine again. But he’d been a coward, he’d been to eager to find something better, and he’d chosen to leave. So this is all his fault, and he can’t mope about it. That wouldn’t make sense. If only he could remember a time he’d ever made sense.

 

Later that night, weary and world-tired, he lays on his bed, smells Derek and youth and home, and pretends it’s not enough to lure him to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

If there was some way to be normal, a pill he could take, a yoga move, head trauma, _anything_ , he’d do it. His brain just isn’t the same as it used to be. He worries more now, feels it all slipping away at the edges, and _that_ makes him worry even more. There’s not even the illusion of control anymore. It hasn’t been like this since just after his mom died. 

But he goes through the motions. Makes his dad breakfast, gives him his meds, goes for a run. Maybe it’ll help somehow. Fake it until he makes it. It’s just that the setting’s wrong. He’d been a different person here, so different from who he is back in Minneapolis, and now those two people are at war. They’re fighting for dominance. Trying to see old memories though strange eyes. It’s like the video keeps skipping, stopping. The sound keeps going, but the image is frozen, then it jumps forward to catch up, only they’re not in sync anymore. Just a little bit off. Enough to distract him. Enough to bother him. 

 

He doesn’t even realize until he’s driven up that he’s at the Hale house, like he’s on autopilot. Sits in the rental, just staring up at it, how different it is. The same basic shape is still there, but the stuff that had been in the early stages of rebuilding is all finished, painted, clearly been around for a little while, and it’s _beautiful_. It looks like a home, like the kind of place a person would _want_ to live, something from a magazine or a fairy tale. There’s hedges and a low wall with _lanterns_ , a real driveway, more flowers on the porch. Hell, there’s _all of the porch_. And places to sit on it, and there are curtains and shutters on the windows, a brass knocker on the door. Like it’s a home and not a shell of a mausoleum. 

A part of him thinks that it was supposed to be _him_ that helped Derek along the path to rebuilding his old nightmares into something better, but he pushes that away, or tries. It’s sticky, that sort of _jealousy-regret-longing_. Won’t help if he dwells on the past, but he doesn’t have much of a choice in the matter.

Stiles gets out of the car with a bit of hesitation. Fixes his jacket. Wishes he had his holster on, just for the comfort of its weight against his ribs. Just something to make him feel prepared for this. As if anything could prepare him for this.

He’s about to take his first step forward when the door is flung open. 

“ _Derek_!” comes a yell from behind the shape of the man himself, who’s frozen. Standing there on the porch, body sunk into inaction. Stiles doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to come closer, but he wants to _see_ him. Up close. Wants to see if he can read the story of the years on his face. But he doesn’t move. 

Derek takes a step, another, another, coming to a stop maybe six feet away. Movement behind him catches Stiles’ eye: Erica and Boyd are just out of the door, watching carefully. For a few moments, all is silent. They’re all afraid of pushing the moment over the edge.

“Why are you here?” Derek says slowly, eyes wide. He looks more like himself, like he’s become more _Derek_ over the years. Guess he didn’t need Stiles for anything after all. That aches, but he tries not to think about it.

“I was in town. Figured we’d run into each other eventually. No reason to draw it out. Would you like me to leave?”

Derek considers it for a while. Like it’s a hard decision. Maybe it is, but Stiles doesn’t want it to be. 

“I think that would be for the best.”

Stiles is a little shocked. Sure, after what he ‘d done, he’d expected some hesitation, but they’d been _friends_ before that. They’d been good. And there’d been so much more good than bad. He’d thought it had counted for something.

“Yeah, fine, sure. I just wanted to say ‘Hi’, I guess. Tell Isaac for me. I’ll go.” He’s about to open the door when he sees movement, dark, and stops. Derek’s come up to him a little closer, but there’s still this void between them.

“Not today. This isn’t a good time. Some other time. I’ll find you.” 

And he spins on his heels, heads back into the house, leaving Stiles to breathe and process. 

So it didn’t go like he would have liked, but granted, what he would have liked was a fiction, a Brokeback Mountain reunion where Derek breaks his nose he’s so mad to kiss him, but by now he should know better than to have tragedies for his fairy tales. Better than to hope for anything from Derek. Better than to think that he deserves anything from him.

 

Stiles nearly drives back to his old house, but he ends up digging Allison’s number out of his pocket and calling her.

“Hello? Who’s this?” She doesn’t have his new number. Well, new-ish. It’s more like two years old. 

“Hey, Allison. It’s Stiles. I know you’re probably busy or something, but do you want me to bring over breakfast?”

“You’d be my hero—Hey, get down!— Sorry. Scott’s shift at the animal clinic started early this morning. I’m all on my own.”

“What’s the address?”

He writes it down as she rattles it off, figuring out in the back of his mind where the nearest breakfast place is.

“Sounds great. I should be there in twenty or so.” He’s not sure why he’s doing it, if it’s because he wants to see a functional family, see _pack_ , or just escape himself for a little while. None of his reasons give him any comfort.

 

Apparently, the best way to win over a brood of little girls is to bring donuts, because they are _wild_ for him. He’s been declared the official favorite uncle, even over “ _Uncle Derek, who throws me in the air real high_ ” by Nat, and Jo gives him a smile and hugs his legs. Allison gives him a little look about the sugar content, but she relaxes when the girls fall quiet, eating. And apparently she’d been having a little bit of a donut craving herself, though she puts peanut butter on hers, the weirdo. 

“Hey, guys, who wants to watch Yo Gabba Gabba?” The girls start yelling in excitement as Allison shepherds them into the living room. A moment later, she comes back. “Sorry. I need coffee or something before I can handle them all on sugar.” She starts getting the coffee together, bustling around. 

“Okay, weird question: how is it that none of them are wolfy if both you and Scott are? Werewolf genetics or something?”

She looks into the other room, like she’s checking if they’re listening. “Well, because they _are_. But we’re putting them through public school, and it’s just a bit easier, in the earlier years, before they start to shift, if we don’t tell them. You know how kids are. Tell them something like this, they’ll decided that all the human kids are inferior or something. Well, Nat would, mostly. They won’t start to figure it out until puberty. At least that’s what Derek said.”

“Speaking of, I went to the house earlier,” he says nonchalantly, like it’s not big deal. She wouldn’t know that it is anyway. No one would.

“Short visit, then. That’s weird.”

He shrugs. “I didn’t actually make it in. There’s stuff going on? Derek said it was a bad time.” Allison narrows her eyes, then seems to get whatever it is. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not _certain_ that this is what’s going on, but it’s the most likely thing I can think of," she says, going to the coffee pot, and starts pouring two cups. “So, about a year or so ago, an Alpha from upstate came down and talked to Derek about things, and basically, he wants to tie our packs together. He’s pretty old, but his daughter isn’t, and she’s next in line in her pack, so he’s trying to set something up between the two of them. _Merge_ , you know? We’re a bit smaller, so there’s some complications there. We’d all have to move, for one. And the daughter, Maggie, she’s really nice and all, but Derek’s not really… _into_ her. Which is a little awkward because we’re pretty sure she’s in love with him. But anyway, she drops by from time to time, especially when we have pack meetings, so she’s probably expected to be in today.”

Well, that makes some sense. No reason to confuse her by having not-pack hanging around. Even if Scott’s a little deluded on that front.

“Derek gets a little stressed when she’s around, as you can imagine. We still haven’t figured out how to reject their offer without starting some sort of blood feud. It’s tricky politics.”

“Why doesn’t Derek just take one for the team and wolf-marry her then? Wouldn’t that be easier?” He’s pleased with himself for not sounding at all bitter. 

“I don’t know. We’ve…hinted to him that that might be a good idea, but he’s always been pretty firm on that one. I think it might be a mate thing. It’s not done as much anymore, but it used to be that most Alphas married their Alpha mates. His parents were mates, so I think he has a lot of respect for that sort of bond. He’s probably holding out for the right woman.” She glances at him. “Or man, of course. I’m pretty sure it isn’t one-hundred-percent gender specific.”

“Derek doesn’t swing that way. Trust me,” he answers immediately, cursing at himself and his stupid mouth. 

But she doesn’t seem to have really picked up on anything weird. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never seen him with anyone, man or woman. Ever, actually.” She stops to think about it, and Stiles really needs to make her quit it, distract her, because some part of him is breaking, and he refuses to consider that it might be his heart. “You know, that _is_ kind of weird, if you think about it. People usually at least _like_ someone. And I know it’s not anyone in the pack, or we’d all know. That’s strange. Huh.”

“Yeah, strange. Or not. Just Derek being Derek. Lonely and miserable and arrogant about it.” 

She looks at him sharply. “That’s not fair. You’ve been gone for _years_. He’s gotten better. You haven’t seen it. You didn’t see what happened after you left.” The little, quivering hope that rises in his chest, he crushes it down, breaks its wings. No. He’s not going to let coincidences make him feel.

“What? He lost his whipping boy? The dog he could kick around when he felt down? I’m sure he took it really hard, what with his incredible emotional depth and all.”

“That’s not…You were _never_ like that to us, to him. You were friends once. Do you remember that? Scott used to be _jealous_ of you because you were better friends with the Alpha. Hell, they were _all_ a little jealous. And you two were a team, you know? Everyone used to call you ‘Mom and Dad’ behind your backs. You mattered. Still do, I mean. I just don’t get why you don’t remember it like we do. What made you think of us like this?”

He shakes his head, has to shut that down. “Nothing. _Happened_. I just had to go on to bigger things, get out, and, funny enough, he wanted me gone too.” She sighs, hands him a cup of coffee. Leans over to check on the girls through the doorway.

“I can tell when you’re lying,” she says, taking a sip. “One of the perks, you could say. But if you don’t want to talk about it, fine. I won’t force you. It’s just…I don’t even really remember you hating him like this. It’s sad to see. I just have this really vivid memory of you two being friends, being happy, and I’m sad that that’s gone.”

He purposely burns his mouth on the coffee. Trying to use pain to distract from pain. God, and she’s right, too. They’d been _great_ friends. That summer, Stiles had more or less lived at Derek’s house. He’d slept on the couch he’d forced him to buy and bought them all groceries and they’d sit on the porch drinking beers in the evenings to just talk and it had been _perfect_. Until he’d fucked it all up. 

“I’m sorry. It was my fault, anyway. I don’t really have room to complain in the first place.” 

She bumps him affectionately. “Hey. Don’t talk like that, okay? I’m sure you can patch things up with him just fine. We all missed you a lot, and he’s not the exception. I’ll do whatever I can to help. Scott too. Okay?”

“Yeah, sure.” Not like there was anything they could do. Unless they could invent a time machine so he could go back and tell himself not to fuck it all up to begin with. Tell himself not to be stupid and hopeful and completely, idiotically in lo—

No. Not that. He had never been that. Maybe he’d had a little crush. Maybe it had been hormones. But that was all. He’d been eighteen, old enough to know better than to try to fool around with his feelings for Derek Hale. Jesus, just thinking about that day makes him want to punch something, or unload a few clips at something. He’d been so _stupid_ , so disgustingly optimistic. 

Good thing, too, or he never would’ve gotten smart. Never would’ve wizened up. He’d’ve died in college, trying to love everyone he’d been with. It would’ve torn him apart. Which was why it kind of did, everything with Louis….that had been a mistake. He’d let himself get comfortable. Not okay. Can’t do that. Should’ve remembered how that goes for him. That it _doesn’t_. How caring for people just doesn’t ever really go right. Best case scenario, he gives everything he has to keep them happy and safe and then he has nothing left for himself. That was why he’d left this damn place to begin with. So he could escape.

There’s warmth around his waist, and it takes him a second to realize that Allison is hugging him, her face pressed into his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry, Stiles. I wish you’d open up, but it’s okay. It’s really okay. Or it will be. I promise.” She must have a lot of practice with this, having kids. And he’s not crying, he’s not, pretty sure about that, but he knows that if he felt like it, it would probably be okay here. She would rub his back through it and offer him comfort, but he wouldn’t know what to do with that. He doesn’t cry because of that. And because he’s done really well with the not-crying, has for years. Sort of. Waking up in the middle of a panic attack doesn’t count. He needs to just…let a little of it go for once, so he can be free of some of the weight that’s pressing down on him.

“I’m not happy,” he says. “I went away because I thought it was the only way I could be happy, but it just made everything worse. And I _tried_ , I tried to stay, but I couldn’t do it, couldn’t be satisfied. I’ve been looking for him— _it_ , for _it_ ever since.” Shit, he’s not even vaguely in control of himself now, is he? Obviously not, since he can’t keep his goddamned mouth shut.

“Hey, look at me,” she says, placing a hand on his cheek like it doesn’t make him shake. “It’s okay. You— You loved him, didn’t you? It’s okay, it’s fine—“ and he’s biting his lip, holding it back, because _he doesn’t use that word_. Never uses that word. She doesn’t know that though, so he’s not going to lash out, he’s going to be reasonable. He’s going to be calm, even if he thinks he might possibly be tearing up a little because it’s all gone blurry. He’s going to be fine, no, he is, he’s going to shed his skin and find himself new again—

“Yeah. Yeah, I did,” he says instead, gripping the counter for support. And then it’s a little bit easier. It’s not such a secret anymore, it’s not a tattoo he keeps under his shirt, it’s not the last thing he takes into the grave with him. Because now he’s said it. For the first time, he’s admitted it to someone and now Allison can share the weight a little. Not all of it. Not even half. But enough that he can take these deep, shuddering breaths, and it’s not because the walls are closing in on him this time. No, this is because he’s finally surfaced. Can finally breathe again. 

Her thumb rubs his cheekbone gently. It’s motherly. 

He lets out a soft, “I’m okay,” because he knows she’s worried and because he believes that it might be true one day. Not today, no, today he’s having a breakdown in his somebody else’s kitchen, but some other day, he won’t be. 

“Yeah. Yeah, you are. You’re just fine.” It’s earnest, like she really believes it. At least someone has faith in him. Never expected it to be her, of all people. 

But now he’s breathing, and isn’t that something?

 

“If you want, you can drop by again this evening,” Allison says as she’s showing him out. “There’s a pack meeting, but we rotate out for babysitting duty. I won’t be here, but Lydia will be, if you want to catch up with her. I know it’s been quite a while.” She shrugs. “And I think you two could be good for each other.”

He nods, making plans to consider it, but not really willing to do so yet. “I’ve gotta go. Make sure my dad is doing alright. I think he’s marathoning _Justified_ , which doesn’t really bode well.” She gives him a quick hug, and weirdly enough, it feels natural now. It feels normal. 

“I’ll see you. Alright?” There’s more behind that, she’s asking so much so simply. A couple words to convey a thousand things that he wants to feel like, the faith she has in him to be someone other than who he is. One thing’s for sure: he never gave her enough credit when they were younger. 

“Yeah. Yeah, alright.” 

When he walks away, back to the rental, feels something a little like hope. Maybe this time, he’ll learn how to be alone without being lonely. There’s plenty of time for him to figure it out. At least he’s a step in the right direction. 

 

It’s weirdly normal-feeling to take care of his dad. To cook for him, make sure he has liquids, make sure he’s clean, make sure he takes his meds. And no, his dad isn’t necessarily one-hundred-percent at the top of his game, but that’s alright. He’ll get there. He’s doing well, according to the progress checkpoints the doctor had given to him. He’s right on track. That means Stiles should be able to get out of here in two weeks. He’s tempted to call his partner, Grace, give her a heads up that it’s looking more like two weeks than one so she can pass it on to the Chief, or even just to _talk_ to her. She’s comforting. Like the big sister he never had. She knows absolutely nothing about Beacon Hills, of course, so talking to her would feel normal. But maybe he’s okay for now. Allison had grounded him. He should be fine for a little while. Yeah. He’ll be fine. Really. 

 

Stiles doesn’t head over to Allison and Scott’s until after making his dad some sort of uber-healthy lasagna, making sure he eats it. He almost leaves then, while his dad is still watching his marathon, but he looks at him and just can’t. Wouldn’t be right. Instead, Stiles hunkers down next to him for a few episodes. It’s nice, in a way. He’s never felt like they have a real strong father-son connection, maybe because he was a shit teenager, what with the running around at night and lying all the time, and also because he didn’t come back like his dad thought he would. Didn’t visit when he should have. He’s failed in that. So far, at least. But maybe he can make it better, a little. He’ll visit more. Do holidays here or something. And right here, right now, he can do his best. Make up for a decade and a half of disappointment. He can do that. 

After a little while, he notices that his dad is mostly asleep, so he rouses him a little, just enough to put him to bed, then makes sure his phone is next to him, just in case. He watches his dad sleep for a moment from the doorway, comforted by it. The door shuts silently as he leaves, heading over to Allison and Scott’s, heading towards Lydia like he has a choice in the matter.

 

It knocks the breath out of him when she opens the door, Noelle on her hip. She softens when she sees him, and it’s so fitting, how she looks exactly like how he remembers while still being vastly different. For one, most of her hair is tied back, save for a few wispy curls. Her clothes are nice, sure, but far more practical than he remembers. But above all, it’s her face. She’s still the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, but it looks like she’s grown into more, owns it more. Her face is a part of her, not just something she wears. 

A face about level with her hip appears from around her. “Mommy, who’s that?” Her hand settles on the boy’s head.

“He’s a friend, Shane. From a long time ago. Go on back inside, okay?” She shoos him away, and it’s weird, like watching the strangest dream he’s ever had. She’s a _mother_ now. It’s so unlike the insecure, self-obsessed girl he used to know. Noelle curls into her shoulder, and she rubs the girl’s back so _naturally_. “Allison told me you might show up.”

“I guess I just wanted to see you.” 

She gives him a look, like she thinks she knows what’s in his head. “Well, you’ve seen me. Little bit of a mess right now. No one seems to understand the concept of ‘bed time’, so I started a pillow fight in hopes of exhausting them, but, well. _Kids_.” She adjusts Noelle on her hip. “So can we make this quick?”

“Sure. I mean, I can help you put the girls to bed, if you want. Then maybe we could catch up a little.”

There’s a moment or two of intense staring before she backs into the house, leaving the door open to him. He follows, thrilled in a weird place, like this is a teenage fantasy come to life. Playing house with the girl of his dreams. It doesn’t matter that she’s not even the gender he likes; she’ll always be _the_ girl to him. 

“Uncle Stiles! Are you gonna play with us? We’re playing Wolves and Hunters and I’m winning because I’m the Alpha, but it’s okay if you join my pack because I said so.” Nat’s standing on one of the couch cushions, cheeks bright pink from exertion, wearing the most triumphant little smile. 

“Let’s play tomorrow, okay? You know, even Alphas need their sleep.”

She looks at him like she thinks he’s bullshitting her. “No _way_. Uncle Derek doesn’t need sleep. Ever. Daddy says he doesn’t sleep, he just _waits_.”

Stiles bites back a laugh. “Well, that’s because your Dad’s never seen Uncle Derek sleep. _I_ have.” He can do this. If he just pretends, tells it like a story, it’ll be fine. He can pretend he’s still friends with Derek, that they’re okay. 

“ _Really_?” Jeez, the kid’s excited.

“Oh yeah. He sleeps _all the time_ , he just keeps it a secret.” He nods very seriously, squatting down, then leans in to whisper, “You wanna know another secret about Uncle Derek?”

She nods like a bobble head. “Uh huh.”

“Are you _sure_?” More nodding. “Promise not to tell?” She’s way too excited. “Alright, pinky promise?” He holds out his pinky and she twists her own around it. 

“I pinky promise, Uncle Stiles! Tell me!”

“Alright,” he leans in conspiratorially, says, “this is just between you and me, but Uncle Derek? _Snores_.”

She pouts, hands flying to her hips, like it’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard. “No he doesn’t! Uncle Derek would never _snore_.” He grins a little, nodding. This is so easy, pretending to be fine for her; she makes it feel effortless.

“ _Oh yea_ h. He does. If you get ready for bed, I’ll tell you _all_ about it.”

“Swear?”

“I swear.”

“Alright,” she says, then runs off in the direction of her room. 

Lydia takes Jo, who looks to be pretty tuckered out, by the hand and leads her along, saying, “Shane, you stay here, okay? I’ll be right back.” Stiles follows her down the hallway. He takes Noelle so she can get Nat and Jo changed, get their teeth brushed. He changes Noelle’s diaper, thanking the heavens above that he’s had experience babysitting Grace’s little boy for the past couple years, and gets her into a onesie for bed. Her room is separate from the other two girls, so when she’s done, he puts her in her crib and goes to find Lydia. She’s just getting Nat into bed, with a little difficulty, but the girl stops protesting when she sees Stiles. 

“Tell me a story about Uncle Derek!” Lydia rolls her eyes at him and checks on Jo, who looks to be already asleep.

“In a minute, okay?” He leans in to Lydia a little. “Noelle’s mostly ready for bed, but I think she wants you to say goodnight to her. I’ll handle Nat, if you want.”

She nods, grateful. “Good plan. That girl’s wearing me out.” He grins, imagining for a sharp, stinging second how his mom must have felt the same way for most of his childhood. But he pushes himself into the present, focuses on the here and now, how Nat’s bouncing a little. Right. Put her to sleep. The task at hand. He can do that. 

Stiles sits on the edge of her bed, tucking her in a little. “So, a story, huh?” She nods, so excited it almost makes him ache a little. “Well, _way_ back when, when your dad and I were just teenagers, the whole pack was just starting to really get used to being wolves. So you know Isaac?” She nods. “He was really young then and had a little bit of a temper sometimes, and one day, he got really angry at Derek and ran away. So Scott—your dad, I mean—and Derek and Jackson and Erica and Boyd all searched for him for days and days. Your mom and Aunt Lydia and I all had to stay behind because none of us were wolves yet and we couldn’t keep up, so we just had to wait. The full moon was coming up, so we were all really worried about everyone because Isaac and Erica and Boyd hadn’t really learned to control it yet.

“So we’re waiting, and on the night before the full moon, everyone comes back except for Jackson and Isaac. Jackson was the only one who could talk to him, so he was going to bring him in. Anyway, so the rest of the pack is back, but they’ve been running and looking for days, so everyone’s hungry and really tired. Everyone goes to sleep except Derek. He decides that since he’s the Alpha, he should wait up for them, even though he’s just as tired as everyone else. Well, I saw how tired he was, even a big, scary wolf like he is, so I told him I’d wait with him. We sat on the porch for hours and hours, and it wasn’t until the sun was about to come up that I realized that Derek had fallen asleep on my shoulder.”

“Really? Just like that?”

“Yep. He didn’t like the idea that even Alphas need rest, but I knew better. And guess what?”

“What?”

“Not only did he snore, but he _drooled_. All over my shoulder. And it was okay. You know why? Because everyone has to sleep. The best Alphas know their limits so they don’t push themselves farther than they can go.”

“Or they keep someone around who will look out for them so they don’t have to,” comes a voice from the doorway. “Uncle Stiles is good at that, so if he thinks you’re sleepy, you should go to sleep,” Lydia says softly. 

“Do you think I should go to sleep?” Nat asks very seriously, covers pulled all the way up to under her little chin. 

Stiles nods. “I think it’s time for even big girls like you to get some rest. Okay? Sleep tight.”

“Don’t let the dire wolves bite,” she replies, and he holds back a laugh. Jeez, what are they teaching these kids? Do they get special werewolf fairy tales? 

Smiling, he brushes her hair off her forehead and gets up, a feeling of lightness in his chest. Lydia’s got this inscrutable look, but she follows him to the living room after turning out the lights. 

Shane is curled up in a ball on the couch, looking dead to the world. Lydia snorts when she sees him.

“Come on. I need some green tea to de-stress. Have a cup with me. Or don’t.” She shrugs, heading in and grabbing the kettle from above the sink. She’s clearly comfortable in the McCalls’ kitchen. 

“Yeah, no, that sounds good. Tea’s good.”

She doesn’t respond, just goes about her business to put the kettle on. After a minute or two, she turns to him. “So. Single or divorced?”

“What? Is there a difference?”

She gives him a look. “Single, then.”

“What makes you so sure I’m not dating someone?” Obviously, he isn’t, but part of him just wants to hear her be clever.

“You’ve got ‘living alone’ written all over you, Stilinski. You’re definitely not serious with anyone. Haven’t been for a while, I’m guessing. But…you’ve had a few casual hook-ups.” He doesn’t miss her lack of a gender-specific pronoun. Wonders if she actually _knows_ , or if she’s just fishing. It’s an interesting game, and he enjoys it. Interrogations are something he’s always liked, but he never gets a chance to be on the other side of them. 

“Go on,” he prompts.

She sees the challenge, the game, it’s all over her face. “Well. You’re…some sort of cop, aren’t you? Never meant to follow in your father’s footsteps, but did it anyway. I bet you’re pretty good at it, too.” She looks him up and down. “Alright, gay. And you’re comfortable with it, so it isn’t a recent sexual identity crisis. And I’m feeling that your last relationship didn’t end well, did it? No, it was bad, wasn’t it?” 

He quirks a dry smile, impressed and feeling open. “Yep. He shot me, actually. Twice.”

 _That_ , she had not been expecting. Her mouth is hanging open, but after a second, she shakes herself out of it. He’s not even really sure why he’d told her, but that’s just him. Something about her makes him forget to censor himself. He’d never been good at holding anything back around her. 

“But spot on. For everything, really. I’m a detective, technically, but yeah. So you know me. What do you do?”

“I teach. Math. At the high school. Technically, I work part-time, though. Shane, you know? He’s in pre-school, which makes everything easier, except it’s only half-days, so _someone_ has to pick him up.”

“Jackson doesn’t help?”

She shrugs. “He does, but we trade off every week. He’s…well, he wasn’t so great about it at first. I mean, we didn’t really split for sure until Shane was around three, but he never really took much responsibility until about a year ago. He’s better now. Had some…issues that he’d never really worked out, but he’s in a much better place.”

“Do you still love him?”

“I don’t know.” She looks down. “It’s different, when you have a kid with someone. It’s…permanent. It doesn’t really matter if I love him anymore. He’s still going to be a part of my life.” She looks a little uncomfortable, but wipes it away quickly. “So. You.”

“What about me?”

“Did you and Derek start up your little thing again?” He chokes, really _chokes_. There’s a second where he isn’t sure if he’s going to fall off the face of some cliff, to just break down, but he forces himself to breathe again. 

“We never had a _thing_. That’s…no. We didn’t.”

She looks honestly confused. “What are you talking about? I’m pretty sure I didn’t hallucinate the summer after graduation, because I’m _pretty sure_ you lived with him for a good two months. That’s why he got so pissy and depressed after you left. Because, for some ungodly reason, you broke up with him.” The look on her face is adamant. “No one talked about it, sure, because that was your thing. Your business, and it wasn’t like someone would be stupid enough to bring it up to Derek, that’s for sure.”

He shakes his head. “Never. We were just friends. I _swear_. You’re the only one who thinks anything different.” He pauses for a moment. “Well, Allison…I told her that I…well, that I may have had some _feelings_ , but nothing ever happened. Not really. I just….”

“Right, if you didn’t break up, why was he acting like he got dumped?” she asks sarcastically. “What, did he try to put the moves on you or something?” He honestly laughs at that. The idea of Derek not only hitting on him, but Stiles rejecting him? Absurd. “Oh. Oh no. Jesus, you’re both total idiots, aren’t you? I mean, I _knew_ you were, but not to this extent. This is…you never talked about it with him, did you? That’s what happened, isn’t it? You liked him, he liked you, and neither of you fucking did anything about it, _Christ_.”

“He never liked me in that way,” he says with certainty. Because he _knows_ that it was just friendship, no matter how much he wished differently.

She looks at him sharply. “Understand this: you weren’t here, so you didn’t have to see it, but he moped for _months_. Classic broken heart. It was terrible. The _whole_ _pack_ felt it, so don’t try to tell me that he didn’t have feelings for you. Because that’s just bullshit.”

“Yeah?” He’s angry now, because she has _no right_ to talk about it like that, she doesn’t _get_ it. “Well then why is it that when I tried to tell him, he shut me down _cold_? Huh? Because that’s what happened. I fucking _told him_ , and he just pushed me away like I was absolutely nothing to him. So no, don’t tell me that he liked me _at all_ , because he didn’t. He made that _perfectly_ clear.”

She sinks into herself a little. Falls in on herself. He’s done that. Fuck, he’s _been_ that. 

( _A universe was once contained beneath his skin, once started with its own big bang, but then his mother died and it began to draw back into its center. That shadow he holds inside of his body collapsed into a single point years ago, an infinitely dense center of pain and longing, and it’s the only place he can find himself. That’s where the real Stiles is, trapped inside this indescribably small point that sucks everything else in. So no, he’s not hollow; there’s just nothing there._ )

“He must not have realized until after you were gone. What you meant to him. Because no, I don’t have weird wolf instincts or whatever, but I know a broken heart when I see one.” She sighs, shakes her head, then seems to remember the water boiling on the stove. “Have you seen him yet?” she asks, scrambling for cups and tea bags.

“Yeah. Today. I went over there.” She’s turned away from him, which is for the best because he can’t look at her face right now. “He told me to leave. Allison thinks it was because of some wolf chick. Maggie, I think? But I think it was just because he doesn’t want to see me. He didn’t seem exactly _welcoming_. At all. And it’s fine. No, it is. It’s not like I haven’t done fine for _years_ without him in my life. I don’t need him anymore. Never did, actually. So it’s fine. We were just friends anyway.” He just about manages to convince himself. He’s so fucking close to believing it, he can feel it, just out of his grasp. 

“Really? Then since you’re old friends, why don’t I tell him you’d like to have dinner, catch up a little?” Her grin is evil and too confident. “Exactly. You’re not fine with it, and maybe you shouldn’t be. Ever think of that?”

“What? You think you’re going to be able to convince him that I’m worth a shot? You think I even still _want_ to be with him anymore? Don’t mess around with this. It’s got nothing to do with you.”

She sighs, hands him a mug of tea with a serious expression. “Look. You believed in me when no one else would. You were the only person who really saw my flaws and loved me anyway, who forgave me for… _everything_ , even when you were one of the last people who should have. That meant a lot to me. It got me out of a few bad situations. If I ever got too dark, I would think of your face, just your stupid _face_ if I ever did something drastic, and that was what set me right again. So it _does_ have to do with me because I want you to be happy. If that means Derek, then I’ll do whatever I can to make it happen. If not, then that’s that.” He’s…touched. He isn’t really sure what to do with that information. It’s almost comforting, actually. Hearing that his love actually had been worth something in the end. That’s all he ever wanted. 

“Thanks. For the—“ he gestures broadly “—for _that_. I…I don’t want anything to do with him, okay? I made up my mind about him a long time ago. I’m done with him. Let’s face it, he’s not particularly _likable,_ even. There’s not a single thing about him that’s worth my time.” She looks at him sadly, then taps his cheek. Worries her lower lip between her teeth.

“Honey, I heard the story you told Nat. Better yet, I was _there_ the next morning. I found you two all snuggled up. Maybe you don’t think he’s likable, but you still like him. Or you did. And I can tell you with complete honesty that there’s not a single other person in this pack that he would have _ever_ allowed to see him like that. So, alright, you can say he’s not worth your time, but don’t pretend you both weren’t important to each other once.” She sighs. “And maybe it’s a little selfish on my part. Maybe it’s because he’s a bit grumpy in general and I want him to be happy so he’ll be a little nicer. I think that if there was a chance that he could be happy without you, he would be by now. And he’s not. That’s all.”

“Oh, _is that all_?” It comes out harsh, but that’s because she’s hurting him and she doesn’t even know it. She doesn’t understand that giving him any sort of hope is just about the worst possible thing. Hope can kill. He can’t do that. _Can’t_. “Can we just _stop_ talking about this? It’s never going to happen. _Never_. Class dismissed. Case closed. End of discussion.”

“Fine. Alright. Sure. We can do that.” She looks pissed, but he’d rather have her angry than let her keep breaking down the carefully-constructed fortress that he’d built to hide away all of the hopes he never dared set free. “Do you want to sleep with me?”

He chokes. “What? No, I’m not—I’m sorry, I don’t really— with the women. Not my thing. I thought you knew that?”

She rolls her eyes. “Not _sex_. I just…it’s been a while since I slept with a warm body next to me. Technically, this is Jackson’s week with Shane, it’s just my turn to baby sit, so he’s taking him to his place later. But you seem like you haven’t spooned in a while, you know? And I like you. I trust you. Not just the gay thing, but you know.” It’s…weird, yeah, but he’s considering it. Kind of likes the idea of comfort. Of having someone to be close to, a bed that isn’t cold and lonely.

“Uh, yeah. Sure. It’s just, what with my dad’s situation, I’ve gotta be at his house. Heck, I should be home soon. To be sure he’s alright and all that.” 

“It’s your old house, right?” He nods. “I can drop by after the meeting’s over. After Jackson takes Shane and Scott and Allison are back. I, well, I don’t mean to seem needy or anything. It’s not like I’ll _die_ or anything. It would just be nice.”

“No, you’re right. It would be nice.” He sips at his tea. It’s almost funny: they’ve just arranged for a cuddle hook-up. If he’d told his teenage self that he would one day cuddle with Lydia, he probably would have freaked out. Or jerked off furiously. Funny how things change. 

 

His dad is still in bed, asleep as he’d left him. Stiles settles down on the couch with an old sitcom, and waits. 

 

Lydia is warm and small and fits in his arms and smells like expensive perfume and crayons. This, this is how he wants her, with one of her arms wrapped around his waist and her nose buried in his neck, something perfect and flawed that he can hold onto so he doesn’t get dragged away by the current.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: sexual assault

Stiles’ dad raises an eyebrow when he sees Lydia in the kitchen with wet hair and wearing one of Stiles’ old t-shirts, but, thankfully, he doesn’t say anything. She looks happier, a little lighter than she did when he first say her again, and Stiles had slept like a baby, so all in all, good decision. _Weird_ decision, but good. 

He makes breakfast like a champ, but then, he’s always liked making breakfast, especially for people he likes. He scrambles eggs while Lydia makes small talk with his dad, smiling to himself. This is the life he once wanted, the life he never had. But it’s never really the first dreams that people want to come true in the end. They’re never the ones that make people happy; people never know what they really want until they’ve experienced disappointment and been forced to rebuild their dreams from scratch. And no, his second life plan hadn’t been right, either, but some people aren’t meant to want things. Some people just have to take what life gives them. Some people have to go to therapy for six months because what life gives them happens to be legitimately insane and trigger happy.

But it’s better now. This is something that could make him happy. Hell, if things don’t go well in Minneapolis, there’s always this. Moving back to Beacon Hills, being Lydia’s platonic bedmate, taking care of his dad. That’s…well, no, he’d be miserable here. Too many tainted memories. But it’s a nice thought: happiness. Settling down. That kind of thing.

What is he thinking? He’s too young for that. Not even thirty yet. No, in a few years, he’ll meet a nice doctor or underwear model or straight-up normal guy or something and they’ll buy a nice house and adopt a few kids together and that will be his happiness. Far away.

As he hands his dad his meds, Lydia kisses his cheek. When she leaves, it doesn’t feel like being cut in half, and that alone makes him want to ask her to stay. 

 

A little after breakfast, his dad says he’s bored of sitting on his ass and doing nothing, so Stiles runs down to the station to pick up some paperwork for him. Lucille, who he _just barely_  remembers from the old days, gives him a short stack of papers and starts asking about the Sheriff. It’s maybe a minute before he’s surrounded by people he used to know, or people who want to meet the Sheriff’s son, and it’s hectic and wild, but sort of comfortable. These are the type of people he gets along with. He starts talking to them all almost on accident, but before long, he’s got most of the on-duty officers in a semi-circle around him, listening to his stories of some of the weirder cases he’s had back home. He likes telling stories. It’s easy, making people pay attention, making people laugh. 

By the time he heads out of there, he’s got a basket of muffins to go with the paperwork and guarantees that if he ever gets bored while he’s in town, he can come along on patrol with just about anyone. 

 

When he gets back to the house, his dad is in the kitchen. He’s got a little more energy this morning, clearly, but the doctor had said not to let him exert himself in any way for at least a week, so Stiles ushers him over to the couch and hands him the backlog.

“You really never do your paperwork, do you?” he asks almost jokingly; one of the folders is dated two months ago. “I thought _I_ was bad. Well, no, I thought Grace was bad. She’s actually really terrible about it. I end up doing half of hers for her.”

His dad huffs. “I’m not _that_ bad. I’m just…busy. There’s a lot going on most of the time. That’s all.”

“Do you want some help?” There’s not a _ton_ he can do, since a lot of it is usually details of the case, but there’s usually some formulaic stuff he can help out with.

“Sure.” The look his dad gives him is…odd. Almost like he’s seeing him as a _man_ for the first time in his life. Like he’s glimpsing what it would be like to meet him as a stranger. It’s weird, seeing that in someone’s eyes, but the way his father’s face settles looks a little something like respect, the boy in him preens at. With a grin that feels twenty years too young spreading across his face, he sits down next to his dad and gets to work. 

 

The major problem with him needing a drink after long hours working is that his dad isn’t allowed to drink. At all. For a couple months, actually, which is part of the doctor’s strict diet that Stiles had basically been pushing since _forever_. Now, though, his dad’s red meat intake can be pretty much controlled, considering that Stiles does all the cooking. But the problem is still alcohol. Having a drink in front of him would be cruel. It just shouldn’t be done. Besides that, there’s no alcohol in the house because he’s a good son and removed the temptation, but it also means that he has to go out.

Luckily, after a day of work, his dad goes to bed a little early. And maybe this is where he fails as a human being, but he leaves the house, leaves his dad sleeping, and heads out into the night.

There are only three bars in Beacon Hills, that much Stiles remembers, and he nearly heads to the closest before he decides to make a bad decision and stops at the gas station for a pack of cigarettes. He hadn’t brought any with him because of his dad, because it’s just one of those things he wouldn’t understand, but he always smokes when he drinks. Force of habit. 

In the end, he heads to the bar that’s the furthest from the house. That way he can drive home with the windows down and ease the tobacco from his clothing and skin, sober up a little before he gets home. See, he plans ahead. And he’s not going to get _drunk_. That would be stupid for a number of reasons, and he’s a lot of things, sure, but not stupid. He’s not going to risk getting pulled over or making some sort of poor decision, like trying to hook up with someone here, of all places. 

The bar turns out to be a little dingier than he remembers, a lot less classy than the one most of the force goes to back in Minneapolis, but something about that kind of fits. It’s something different. Yeah.

Half of the patrons are wearing some sort of leather, and he idly remembers that phase where Derek and his betas had tried to look like a biker gang, like they were tough badasses who didn’t give a shit. Yeah, because that lasted about a month. But most of these people look comfortable in it. They look…hard. Like unhappy people used to being unhappy, misery turning their faces leather-stiff. He nearly sits down before he realizes that there’s no smoking inside, so he pops back out for a cigarette. There’s a couple men and women doing the same, but they don’t make conversation. This is when he wonders if he’s chosen the wrong bar, if these people are too serious about what they came here for, but he shrugs it off. He’s basically a stranger in this place. It doesn’t matter anyway.

He crushes the butt beneath a too-heavy heel and heads inside. Oh, he needs a beer. Needs one _bad_. So he heads up to the bar, takes the only empty seat, towards the back, and waits. A moment later, he sees the back of a blonde head appear, and for a second, he doesn’t think it is, but then it’s so clear who it is. 

When Erica’s eyes land on him, her smile grows predatory, and she saunters up, leaning forward in a way that shows off her breasts.

“What can I get for you, Stilinski?” Jesus, does she want to eat him or something?

Probably, actually. That’s not particularly far-fetched.

“Just a Blue Moon, if you have it,” he says, mildly concerned for his personal safety. 

“For you, it’ll cost extra.” The look she gives him…he’s not used to being viciously flirted at, especially not by women. He works pretty hard to give off a _not interested_ vibe to everyone he encounters that pretty much stops anyone from trying, but _jeez_ , she is putting in effort. When she walks away down the bar, her hips swivel in a way that’s clearly for his benefit. He’s not even into her, but she oozes sexuality in a way that makes it hard for him to look away. It’s always kind of been that way with her, but damn, if it isn’t confusing.

 _Of course_ he’d end up at the bar where she works. Because apparently his life is full of unfortunate coincidences. Great.

But nope. He’s going to have a couple beers and then he’s going to go home, and that’s going to be that. He’s not going to speak to her unless he needs to. It’s definitely better that way. 

She smirks at him when she brings him his beer, but doesn’t say anything. Thank God for that. He’s too sober to handle sustained interaction with her right now. There are so many reasons why it’s bad to be here with her, and they all increase exponentially when he sees Isaac join her behind the bar. Great. And alright, he’d gotten along with them well enough long ago, but they were always this scary duo to him, just a little bit. They took the whole werewolf thing as a power trip, an excuse to be the predators when they were used to being prey. He understands the logic, but it doesn’t put him at ease around them.

Two beers in, he hesitates a little, but waves Erica over.

“Alright, where’s the bathroom in this joint?” She rolls her eyes and jerks her head in the general direction of a very skeevy-looking hallway. Fantastic. 

He heads back there, glad that the bathroom turns out to be a single-person kind of deal, takes care of his business. He’s not even buzzed, really, but it’s weird to see himself in the mirror. Almost always is, though.

He’s barely out of the bathroom when he’s being pushed back in, moved bodily until his back hits a wall, and then there’s a mouth on his and his shirt being untucked and it’s a little too much to process all at once. There’s a moment where he kisses back on instinct, but he opens his eyes, and that’s a little bit of a shock to the system. 

It’s difficult, what with the inhuman strength and all, but he manages to push Erica away. 

“Jesus, warn a guy!” He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Look, I’m not into women. Alright? This is…not okay.”

She licks her lips in a way that makes him feel very small. “Yeah? Then why do you smell like Lydia? Don’t feed me bullshit.” She starts going back in for it, but he jerks away.

“Really. I’m sorry. Lydia and I had a very non-sexual thing. Okay? _Because she doesn’t have a dick_. So can you maybe _not_ with the touching?” One of her hands slips down to the front of his pants, feels around a little. God, he’s being groped in a fucking bar bathroom by a _woman_. Too weird. 

She backs away, eyes narrowed a little. “Fine. Okay. That’s…alright.” She’s almost out the door, but she stops. “By the way, don’t forget to pay for your drinks. I’ll hunt you down.” Well, that’s a threat if ever he heard one. Great. This really had been a fantastic idea. 

He tucks his shirt back in, washes his face. Tries to make himself look presentable.

The door opens suddenly, catching him totally off-guard. A familiar face, but that doesn’t calm him.

“Sorry, I’ll be out in just a second. Let me dry my—“

Isaac shuts the door behind him, crowds Stiles back against the sink. 

“What are you—“

“You know, you used to be cute. Off-limits, yeah, but cute. And now…well, you’ve grown into it.” He presses his open mouth to Stiles’ neck, runs his tongue over his skin like he’s tasting, and no, this isn’t what Stiles wants. Not even close, but it’s distracting in a lot of ways. It’s been a couple months since he’s had anyone, so an attractive guy grinding against him isn’t really a bad thing except when it is. Because this is _Isaac_ , who had always been a little too much on the best of days, and this not anything remotely close to what he wants.

“Stop. Seriously, get off of me. I’m not really into being molested in bar bathrooms, thank you very much.” He tries to edge away, but Isaac’s arms bracket him, gripping the edge of the sink in a way that makes him feel trapped.

Isaac laughs, a bitter, almost angry sound. “I’m doing this for _you_.” He considers it, grinning darkly. “Well, alright, I’m doing it for me, but you’ll get something out of this too. Just give me a moment here.” Isaac ducks his head back down to Stiles’ neck, and this is wrong, this is very bad, he knows it, can feel it, but he can’t compete against someone who isn’t human. He has zero advantage in this situation. 

“Come on, I don’t want this, okay? Stop. Please. Don’t do this.”

Isaac nips at his throat. “I’m not going to fuck you. _Relax_. I’m almost done.” He pulls back, rips Stiles’ top button off, then messes up his hair a bit. “There you go. You can thank me later.”

He leaves in a silent, smooth way Stiles thinks most of them learned from Derek, and then he’s just left standing there, confused as fuck, wondering what the hell is going on. Because being groped and molested by two werewolves in the span of ten minutes? Yeah, that’s not really a normal thing. And he’s not stupid. They’re up to something, that’s for sure. 

About a minute after coming back to his seat at the bar, he discovers half of the puzzle. See, even if it hadn’t been the only seat open, Stiles probably would have been sitting towards the back. Maybe it’s a cop thing, maybe it’s a paranoid thing, but he likes to see everyone in the room when he’s in an unfamiliar place. He tends to watch the doors on accident, a habitual thing, so that’s why he sees them come in: Derek Hale and a woman he doesn’t recognize, but his guess is that it’s Maggie. 

It takes all of half a second for Derek to meet his eyes, and it nearly paralyzes him. 

The woman leans in to him a little, mouth moving, then leaves him behind, heading towards the back, in Stiles’ direction. She must be heading towards the restroom, but when she gets to about ten feet away, her nostrils flare and her eyes search the area, landing on Stiles. The look she gives him is inscrutable, but she doesn’t stop, just walks past him. It’s a little bit intimidating, sets the hairs on the back of his neck on edge, but there’s nothing he can really do about it. 

And then Derek’s walking towards him with that angry-swagger walk of his that he always had. It always made Stiles want him to throw him against a wall and—

No. He’s not going to go back there, into that headspace. Derek doesn’t like him. Better yet, Derek isn’t worthy of being liked. At all. So he’s fine. He can handle this.

Derek stops right next to him, grabs a napkin from the bar and a pen from his own pocket, starts writing. Pushes the napkin at him angrily when he’s done.

 _I don’t care why you’re here. Just get out. Don’t speak, just leave_. 

Stiles holds out a hand, giving him a look until Derek passes him the pen. _Fuck you. Fuck you fuck you fuck you. I’ll do whatever the hell I want and I’m not going to leave just for you. By the way: fuck you._

He smiles a little as Derek rips the napkin from his hand. As he reads it, his frown deepens and his nails get a little…pointy. He looks like he’s about to rip Stiles’ head off, actually, when his face melts into a smooth, emotionless mask. 

“Are you going to introduce me?” comes a female voice from behind him. Maggie slides up next to Derek, close, but not touching. 

“Hello there. Stiles. Stiles Stilinski. Pleased to meet you. Maggie, right?” He holds out a hand, purposefully not looking at Derek directly because the angry cast to his eyes would probably make Stiles laugh. Just the fact that he’s so _angry_ is ridiculous. He has absolutely no right to have his feelings hurt. 

Maggie shakes his hand with a firm grip. “Yeah. Funny, Derek hasn’t told me anything about you.”

“Same, actually. Well, reverse that, but, well. You get what I mean. Allison has told me good things about you, though." 

Her head tilts. “You smell like pack.” She turns to Derek. “Why didn’t you mention you had another human? Why haven’t I met him?” It’s clear that Derek doesn’t know exactly what to say, but Stiles is good at depending on his mouth.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been out of town for a few years—“ Derek’s face twitches the shape of something like a snarl “—and I just got in a couple days ago. Haven’t had a lot of time to make the rounds yet.”

Luckily, she doesn’t notice the blatant rage he’s getting from Derek. Or maybe she does. Who fucking knows. 

“I see. So you’re here for Isaac. I get it.” Stiles isn’t exactly sure what that means, and he’s not sure he wants to figure it out. “Why don’t you come sit with us, then? I’d very much like to get to know you better.” She gestures at an empty booth in the back, and what is he gonna say? No? He’s not stupid. “Come on. It’s my treat.” Her hand touches her pocket, then fumbles around. “Sorry, I must have left my wallet in the car. Keys?”

Derek hands her the keys, glaring at Stiles the whole time.

“Why don’t you two get started. You know what I like.” She smiles sweetly and makes her way out of the bar, Derek watching her intently now. When the door closes behind her, Derek grabs him by the collar and forces him towards the booth, throwing him down on one side of it roughly.

“Jesus, easy on the goods—“

“Care to tell me what you’re doing sleeping with half of my pack?”

“ _What_?”

Derek’s glare doesn’t let up. “You heard me. Allison was _rank_ with your scent last night, and you reek of Lydia, Erica, _and_ Isaac. What did you do, fuck him in the bathroom?” Stiles is so offended, he’s not even sure what to do. What to say. How to make his mouth form words. “Maybe you didn’t understand this, but my pack is off-limits to you. Consider this a warning. If I smell you on any of them again, I won’t be kind.” It’s really the idea of what he’s saying that makes Stiles’ blood boil, makes him want to start a fight he’ll certainly lose. 

“Well, fuck you and the ugly horse you rode in on, Derek. You don’t control them and you don’t control me. So really, thanks for your opinion, but I’m afraid I really don’t give a shit what you say I can or can’t do.”

Derek perks up like he’s heard something. “We’ll finish this conversation later.” He glances towards the entrance of the bar. “So how’s your dad doing, Stiles? I heard he wasn’t doing so well. Really sorry to hear that. The Sheriff is a good friend.” There’s almost something of a threat in there, he feels it, but Stiles knows that no one purely listening would hear it. Maybe not even if they were sitting right there, but Stiles is sure he still speaks Derek Hale fluently. 

“Oh, he’s doing just fine. I’m taking care of some things for him, living at the house, you know. Hung out around the station a little today. It’s great, how many people really care about him.” Or, _If you try to fuck with my dad, I will grab one of the many firearms laying around the house and I won’t miss, and not a single law enforcement officer will stop me_. 

Looks like Derek can speak his language too.

Maggie slides in next to him, though, so he doesn’t have a chance to throw back something equally threatening. She waves over Erica, who seems to be very amused by the table in front of her. 

“Can you just bring us a pitcher of something? Thanks.” She turns to Derek and Stiles, looking at them each in turn. “So. I couldn’t help overhearing about your dad. Is he alright? What happened? I don’t mean to pry or anything, but I know I’d be worried if anything happened to my dad.”

“Heart attack. He’s fine now, recovering from surgery. It’s why I came home, actually.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. He’s the sheriff?”

“Yep. Since before I was born.” He shrugs.

Maggie nods, like she’s realizing something. “Okay, that makes sense.” She looks at Derek. “I’d wondered why you were so buddy-buddy with the law enforcement, but that makes sense. He’s family of pack. Alright.” Stiles isn’t even really able to process the idea of his dad and Derek being _buddy-buddy_. Does not compute. “It’s a smart set-up you’ve got here. I mean, you’ve got resident hunters, but their daughter is one of yours and you’ve got a connection to the law. Diplomatically, very smart.”

Stiles kind of nods at that because yeah, objectively, pretty fucking smart. 

“So. Stiles. Tell me about yourself. What do you do? Where do you live?”

“Uh, I’m a detective, actually. I work up in Minneapolis. No one ever thinks anything goes down in Minnesota, but let me tell you: they are dead wrong.” 

“Wow. That’s pretty far away, isn’t it? Does Isaac visit you often?”

“What? No. That’s…why— Oh. Oh jeez—“ Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose, a thousand possible explanations running through his head and every single one of them sounds horrible. Great. So that’s what Isaac was doing. Scenting all over him so it would seem like they were a couple. Great. Really. 

“Oh, so it’s just casual. Or were you involved the last time you were in town?”

Stiles is coming up with an answer when he sees the look on Derek’s face, and he wants to pretend Derek had never mattered to him. “Yeah, sort of. Experimentally, I guess you could say. I did a lot of stupid things back then. Actually, Isaac dared me to do one stupid thing in particular the day before I left, really a funny story—“

“Drinks?” Erica says, placing a pitcher of beer and three glasses on the table. “Enjoy.” She looks pissed, mostly at Stiles now, and sashays off.

“Great!” Maggie starts pouring for everyone. “Tell me this story. I wanna hear it.”

Stiles grins, brain churning, but Derek beats him to the punch. “Actually, I know which story he’s talking about, and it’s pretty stupid. Not even a good story. I’m sure Stiles has a better story. _Don’t you_?”

“Got nothing, actually.” 

There’s this fleeting look of panic in Derek’s eyes, but then he cups Maggie’s face in his hands and kisses her and this is it. This cements it. This is what it feels like to hit rock bottom. He’s just trapped, almost living it in slow motion as he kisses her slow and sweet and with everything he’s never felt for Stiles. 

So _this_ is what it’s like to truly have a broken heart. 

It’s deafening, somehow. It pushes everything else out so completely, just this roar in his ears and Jesus, he can’t breathe, can’t do this, just can’t get any air.

Fuck. 

 _No_. 

He’s not going to give Derek this. He’s not going to have a fucking panic attack because of him. He’s not worth that, not worth losing control over. 

Stiles’ fingers dig into his own thigh deep, and it _hurts_ , but it’s better. Makes it easier to breathe, to think. 

And he’s smiling. His world is falling down around his ears, and he’s smiling like nothing is wrong at all. 

When they break apart, Maggie looks a little surprised, a little flustered, but so fucking _happy_ that Stiles forces himself to keep smiling. If he looks at her, he can be okay. He can mirror how happy she is. He can do this. He can fucking do this. 

Maggie tucks her hair back behind her ear, saying, “Well. Uh. Yeah. So.” She laughs nervously, which hurts him somewhere deep. Because she’s _normal_. She’s a decent person. She’s not trying to seduce him away, not seducing at all, she’s just a nice, normal woman who just got kissed by the man she’s maybe had a thing for for a little while. She’s just a person. This is how Stiles would be acting. That’s the worst of it: that she’s not someone he can hate for anything. 

“Cute,” he says, because that’s the best he can come up with. And Lord, she just grins. He’s not looking at Derek, though. He’s gonna tunnel vision on Maggie because she’s the absolute maximum of what he can handle right now. 

A weird look crosses her face, and she pulls out her phone, offering an apologetic look before answering. Stiles more or less chugs his glass of beer while she talks to whoever it is. Pours himself another. Drinks as much of it as he can. It might be impolite to run away, but he can certainly run into the bottom of a glass until he forgets where he is. That’ll have to be good enough. 

“Jeez, I’m sorry. That was my dad. He wants me back home by tomorrow morning for a meeting. Wow. Thanks, Dad. What a great fucking commute for the morning.” She frowns; it doesn’t look like it fits on her face. “Sorry, I should go. I’m going to have to wake up at at least _three_ tomorrow morning. Fucking _Jesus_.” 

“Then let’s go,” Derek says. Stiles still isn’t looking at him, but it seems like he wants to get out of here. 

She shakes her head. “No way. You wanted a night out. Have your night out. Catch up. Whatever. I’ll call a cab. Hell, I’ll probably just drive home tonight. Might as well.” 

“What? No, let me—“

“ _No_. I’m not going to ruin your night just because my dad’s a jackass. _Stay_.” 

She’s shaking out her hair or something when he says, “Fine. Take my car, then. At the very least. I’ll catch a ride with Isaac or something. Alright?” Stiles wants to punch him in his considerate face, but then he’d actually have to _look_ at his face, and then he’d probably have a breakdown or something, so no. 

“Okay. Sure.” She sighs. “Well, Stiles, it was very nice to meet you. We’ll have to talk again sometime.” She offers him a smile and then just leaves. Leaves him there with Derek. 

Stiles drinks and drinks and drinks. It’s incredibly unpleasant to drink beer so fast, but he just doesn’t fucking care. As far as the plans to not get drunk tonight? Fuck that shit. Those aren’t even a vague consideration at this point.

The pitcher is empty by the time he’s able to look up at Derek. Fuck, if only he could be _ugly_. 

“I forgot how much I hated you for a little while. But thanks. For reminding me,” he says. Stumbles over the words really. Hates that feeling, when his lips are numb and won’t cooperate, but it’s better than the alternative. He throws a hand up in the air, saying too loud, “Yo! Erica! ‘Nother pitcher over here!” 

“You should stop drinking,” Derek says softly, and wow. Yeah, Stiles kinda really wants to punch him in the face right now.

“Two things—“ he holds up two fingers, ticking them off as he speaks “—one: fuck you. Two: I’m an adult and I can make my own decisions, so _fuck you_.” 

“Why are you acting like this?”

Stiles frowns, agitated and sarcastic and _hurt_. “I’m sorry, did you miss the part where both times I saw you, the first thing you did was tell me to go away? Because that’s pretty clear. Message-wise. I’m sorry if your panties are still in a bunch because of some stupid fucking thing I did when I was kid, but it’s time to _move the fuck on_. But if you’re going to be a massive bastard to me, well, I’m going to fuck your shit up right back. So just stop acting like you haven’t done nothing wrong, because that’s bullshit, ‘kay?” He looks around. “Now where’s Isaac? I’m going to get laid.” 

“That’s it. I’m taking you home. Where are your keys?” Stiles makes a face, checking the pitcher again with no luck. “Where. Are. _Your keys_?” He hands them over reluctantly. 

“I’m not leaving until I’ve had another drink.”

Erica comes over with another pitcher a minute later, then pauses. “Maybe I should—“

“Give that to me.” Stiles takes it from her, in fact, but he has the decorum to pour the beer in his glass before drinking any. 

When he comes up for air again, he burps and sets the glass down. “So. You wanna take me home? Go for it, fucker. See how far you get.” 

This is, apparently, not the right thing to say because a second later, he finds himself flung over Derek’s shoulder and being carried away. He beats at Derek’s back, but it doesn’t do anything.

“Hey! I’m not potatoes! Let me _down_. _Stupid fucking bastard_ —“ Derek jostles him particularly hard, shoulder going right into his stomach. Yeah, he might just puke down his back instead. Maybe that’s more effective. Because it’s looking really likely right now.

And then he’s on his feet again, just like that.

“Which one is yours?” Stiles waves lazily at a car parked a decent distance down, then cringes as a hand grabs him by his neck and starts pushing him in that direction. 

“Stop with the manhandling! God, can you just get off me? I did not consent to be touched like this—“ his back hits the side of the rental hard “—holy _God_! Stop that.”

“No, you listen to me: you’re being stupid right now. You want me to be nice? You want me to be your friend again? This is me being your friend, telling you that you’re being an idiot. So stop it.” 

“Or what? What’ll you do to me? I’m not _pack_ , Derek. You have no control over me. And _we’re not friends_. I don’t want your friendship. I don’t want to have to deal with you because, _hello_ , you’re not worth my time. So kindly fuck off, thank you.”

Derek grips his jacket, presses him against the car a little harder, then loosens his grip. But he stays there. Just stands there.

“Jesus, what do you _want_ from me?” Maybe he yells it, but it’s something that deserves to be yelled. But there’s no answer, just this hollow, vacant expression, so he just keeps going. “I’m gone in less than two weeks, okay? I’ll be out of your hair soon enough, so if you’ll just _leave me alone_ —“

“I miss you.”

Well, isn’t that just a punch to the gut. 

Derek _misses_ him.

Misses _him_.

Fuck, no, he’s going to start crying or something. He’s too drunk to handle this right now. Too drunk for feelings. It’s just too much, _way_ too much, and he can’t deal with any of it. Christ, he needs someone to hold him up, to keep him from falling because he’s about to fall off the side of the Earth. 

(The universe inside of him has collapsed to the point of implosion, to the point where everything just splits apart, racing off in every direction and he can’t control it, how is he supposed to control it when it’s so much larger than him? He can’t, it isn’t possible, but he’s trying, fuck, he’s _really_ trying to hold it all together, to not be blown away by it.)

And then he realizes that he’s not supporting his own weight, that Derek is holding him up, and bile rises in the back of his throat.

“ _No_ ,” he spits. “You can’t just say something like that. That’s not okay. Not when— Not after everything. You can’t just _say_ shit like that.” Stiles can’t look at him. Can’t fucking take it. 

“I’m sorry. There’s a mess and I haven’t dealt with it very well. I’m sorry. Can we stop fighting? Can we just be friends again?”

Stiles barks out a bitter laugh. “ _Friends_?” He laughs and he can’t stop, he’s practically hysterical, he’s falling and he’s laughing and his eyes might be wet, but he’s not fucking crying. His face is on the asphalt and he just laughs until he can’t breathe. Maybe he’ll die, not enough oxygen. At least that might be easier than _this_. 

“What do I have to do? Tell me, and I’ll do it.” Stiles looks up at him, at the earnest look on his face, and he wants to tell him everything, tell him exactly why they’ll never be friends again, but maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe he can get something else out of it. And it won’t be everything, no, but it’ll be something. 

He’s shaky when he tries to get to his feet, stumbles. Falls. Derek’s still standing, looking down at him with something like concern, and yeah, he can do this. Stiles forces himself to his knees. 

“One thing, then. Give me one thing.” It’s a question, and Derek knows it, knows how to take it. Knows what he’s saying. Knows _him_. 

“Anything.” 

It’s the key fitting in the lock. 

His fingers find Derek’s belt loops and tug him a little bit closer, closer until Stiles’ cheek hits denim. He lifts his face to kiss the warm skin of Derek’s stomach, just above his belt, seeing what he tastes like then way he never could. Salt and skin and a hint of damp earth, fuck, it’s intoxicating. 

For a split second, he thinks the hand in his hair is encouragement, but then it’s pulling him away and there are hands under his arms, pulling him to his feet. Of course. Because when Derek had said “anything” he’d meant “anything but _this_ ”. Of course. 

But then the door to the back seat is being opened and his back hits the leather, so maybe not. Maybe for once, he’ll get what he wants. 

Stiles looks at him, searching for some sort of assurance that Derek has a sacrificial side that won’t say no. 

But Derek just looks conflicted. “You’re drunk,” he says, like that means something. It makes Stiles sit up, pushes himself half-way out of the car, pulls Derek between his knees. His face is now level with his sternum, and Stiles leans his cheek against him. Feels him breathing, the rhythm of it, the warmth beneath his face. One of Derek’s hands finds his neck, just sort of holds onto him, and that’s something like an okay. He breathes in his scent, rubs his face against the cotton of his shirt, barely able to believe it. That this is really him, that Stiles is actually touching him, can actually _feel_ him. And he wants, oh how he _wants_ , but he’s too caught up in just the feeling of a solid body to _take_. There’s a thumb rubbing the short hair at the base of his skull, and is this what it feels like to have everything he’s ever wanted? Is this it?

Stiles presses his mouth against where Derek’s heart should be, looking up at him at last. He’s beautiful and terrifying, but Stiles can’t read his expression. Doesn’t understand what the lines around his mouth are trying to say. 

“I’m going to take you home,” Derek says after what feels like a long time. “I’ll drop your car off at your house sometime tomorrow morning.” And just like that, he’s pushing Stiles away, pulling himself away. It leaves him cold and empty, feeling more alone than he has in his entire life, and Derek’s not even three feet away. 

He ends up curling in on himself, in the fetal position for the whole ride home. He can’t move. Forgotten how. Forgotten _why_. Why would anyone want to move? Why would anyone want to live?

Before he knows what’s happening, the door by his feet opens. Stiles doesn’t look, just keeps staring forward. There’s no reason to; he’s seen and heard enough. 

“Come on. Let’s go.”

Stiles doesn’t move or respond.

“ _Please_. I’ll carry you if I have to.” 

There’s a pause, an intake of breath, and Stiles says, “I’m sorry I keep ruining everything.” It’s silent for what might be hours before he’s being pulled from the car, carried inside the house. 

At some point, he realizes that he’s on his bed, but by then, he’s not even really sure who he is anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

Waking up feels like being dragged into Hell. His body feels wrong, like it no longer belongs to him, like his skin is barbed on the inside. 

If this is what it feels like to be alive, well, he’s not sure he can do it much longer. 

But he has to for now, has to look after his dad, so he pulls himself out of bed, showers, tries not to freak out. Maybe he’s a little hung over, but his memory is just about perfect, and that’s the worst part. He’s not going to have a break down, but he does take a moment to practice breathing and smiling so that when he goes downstairs to figure out breakfast, his dad won’t think anything’s wrong. 

And then he stops.

His keys are sitting on the counter. 

That means Derek must have dropped by sometime this morning. He’d been here, and Stiles hadn’t even known. But then, why would Derek have bothered letting him know anyway? It isn’t like they’re ever going to be anything close to friends ever again, and it’s all Stiles’ fault. He keeps _pushing_ , even when he shouldn’t. 

And now he’s basically fucked himself over because when he closes his eyes, he can feel the warmth of Derek’s chest against his cheek and it won’t just go away. He’s thrown himself back into this mess between them, and he just keeps going deeper and deeper into it. 

His dad comes in as Stiles is putting the last of the fruit on a plate for him. He’s going to have to go to the grocery store again, but that’s okay. That’s what he’s here for. 

“So, just curious, do you see Derek Hale much these days?” he asks, trying for casual. He’s pretty sure he fails. 

“That’s the first time you’ve brought him up since you’ve been here.” Well, fuck.

“Is it?”

His dad comes over, leans against the counter. “Yeah. It is. So before you start making excuses, let me just say this: I was never stupid. I figured you two were fooling around, you know, since you slept here about one night a week that summer before you left, and that’s your business because you were an _adult_. That’s fine. Just…don’t disturb the peace for no reason, you know? What with his girlfriend, it’s just not the mature thing to do.”

“I’m not trying to mess anything up. I’m not. It just keeps happening anyway.” The warm weight of a hand settles on his shoulder. Squeezes. 

“He’s a good man,” he says softly. “You deserve a good man, but you deserve one who loves you.” And _that_ hurts. Some part of him had wished foolishly that maybe his dad would have some sort of keen insight into the thoughts and feelings of one Derek Hale and would tell him something like _Oh, he loves you alright, he just doesn’t know how to say it_. Or _Derek and I have had long, involved conversations about his deep burning love for you, so I'm completely supportive_. But no. No, he doesn’t get that. He’s not living a love story. There isn’t a happy ending where they’re together at the end. That’s not how it works. 

Part of him wants to crawl into a ball at that. Part of him wants to give life the finger and just fucking _tell_ Derek how he feels, what he means to him, so he can have it out and be sorely rejected once and for all. Then he can grieve and move the fuck on.

The problem is, that’s starting to actually sound like a good idea. That means something’s wrong with him. Something has broken in his brain and he needs to fix it. He needs someone to tell him that he’s being stupid and that it’s a bad idea, and the worst part is, the person who used to do that for him? Who even still had tried to do that for him? Derek. So what’s he supposed to do? He’s screwed. 

 

In the end, he calls Lydia. 

They meet at a Starbucks that afternoon, when she’s done teaching, and he figures out a seat as far from people as he can find. She’d been a little surprised at first, but once he bought her a macchiato, she’d relaxed into a hint of a smile. 

“So. What’s up? You just need to talk?” He’s working out how to phrase it when her face falls. “Oh no. Tell what happened.”

So he does. He tells her everything in a big rush, letting the words fall out of his mouth and trip over themselves until he has no more left. After, she studies him for a minute, sipping her drink carefully.

“I don’t know what to tell you. If you don’t do anything, you’re going to be hurt. If you do something, odds are, you’re going to be hurt. It’s kind of a lose-lose situation. The problem is this: Derek and Maggie? Not dating. Not romantic or sexual or anything. Or at least they weren’t until, apparently, last night. If she went home this morning, considering her relationship with her father, he knows what happened. That means that whether it was intentional or not, Derek more or less proposed to her, setting up a chain reaction of diplomatic negotiations between them. My bet is that we’ll be hearing from them in a day, maybe two. If he wants to break it off with her, it’s going to be difficult. It’s going to require precision. If you want to talk to him, you have a very small window, considering that if they so much as _smell_ the wrong thing, you could be starting a pack war. You’re playing with fire here. If you want honesty, then I think your best bet is to lie low until you go home.” See, the problem with having good people in his life is that they never lie to him to make him happy. 

“Okay, what if I don’t want honesty?” He delivers it with a cheeky grin, but he’s completely serious. He wants a lie, and he wants it now.

“What, you want me to tell you the stupid thing to do?” She makes a face when he nods. “Fine. Stupid thing, then: just do what you said. Go tell him everything and see what happens. I would tell you what the best case scenario for that one is, but there isn’t one; either way, bad things happen. If he likes you and you want to be together, shit hits the fan. If he doesn’t, everything sucks for you a little more. See, there’s a reason why it’s not a good idea.” 

“You’re right. It’s a terrible idea. I— Thank you. For talking some sense into me.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal, like she does it all the time. She probably does, but that’s beside the point. 

 

The point, as it turns out, is that he’s incredibly stupid. He just doesn’t make good decisions. It’s something that makes him want to drink constantly, that way he’d have an excuse, but he doesn’t. It’s a character flaw, really, that he’s smarter than average, but when it comes to his own life, he’s mentally deficient. He recognizes that in himself because he’s good at introspection. 

That’s how he ends up parking in front of Derek’s house. 

He’s so very aware of how stupid it is, but something about that gives him confidence. That he knows he’s going to fail. The only thing that ever messes him up is hope, because that’s the only reason to really fear failure — having something to compare it to. But no, he’s going to talk, Derek’s going to shut him down for good, and then everything will be perfectly fine. He has his speech prepared, or very nearly. He knows roughly what he’s going to say, has points he’d like to hit. 

When Derek answers the door, all of his preparation just withers and dies. 

“You should really go home,” he says, as if he thinks that thought would have never occurred to Stiles. 

“Is Maggie here?”

Derek shifts uncomfortably. “No.”

“Who is?”

“Just me, but it doesn’t matter. You really shouldn’t be here. It’s not a good idea.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “That’s the best you’ve got? ‘It’s not a good idea’? Don’t give me that.” 

“Why are you even _here_?” It comes out harsh; it’s probably meant to be harsh. Stiles doesn’t particularly care. 

“Tell me that you hate me.” This is not at all how he’d prepared himself, but maybe it’s good that his mouth is doing the thinking. At least he’s cutting to the chase. 

“Come inside,” Derek says, letting him in, “and I don’t hate you.”

Jesus. Part of him wants to cry. Not because of the words, no, because of what he’s looking at. It’s breaking him.

The house is _beautiful_ on the inside. Not just in how it looks even; the feeling of it is _home_. It’s _comforting_. 

The whole place has been renovated. The stairs are a nice dark wood with a soft-looking carpet, and there’s furniture, comfy-looking couches and rugs and tables and through a door in the back he can seen what’s got to be a real kitchen. On one side, an arched entryway into a dining room. Art on the walls, prints and stuff, and photographs of everyone. The house looks huge from the outside, but something about the inside is homey and cozy and lived-in. 

That’s not even the worst part. 

This is supposed to have been _his_. Not the place, not actual ownership or anything, but it was supposed to be him that made this all happen. That took the skeleton of a house and built on it, slowly, over time. And he’d started, sure, he’d done a little work his summer here, but not all of _this_. 

He’s looking at the life he’d wanted and never been granted, and it’s what finally makes his vision blur and throat ache. He wipes the tears away before he sheds them, but it still hurts, looking around. It still makes him want to run until his legs give out and bury himself under a rock or something. He wants to erase his existence from the face of the Earth, doesn’t want to have to feel or know that other people have ever been aware of him at some point. 

After a moment or two, his brain restarts itself, backtracks. 

“Wait, what do you mean? I asked you to tell me you hate me, not tell me you don’t. You’re not very good at this, you know.” 

Derek plops down on the couch and shrugs. “I’m not going to lie to you. That said, I don’t think you should be here, but I suspect you’ll be more willing to leave once you’ve ranted at me or whatever it is you’re going to do. So shoot.”

Stiles stares at him for a moment, at his stupid face, his stupid not-angry face, his stupid henley, his stupid slouch. That he’s just sitting there, waiting for him to launch into some spiel, is infuriating. He can’t say what he needs to say unless he’s yelling. Can’t work with this. He needs Derek agitated, frustrated, _moved_ in some way. Not this…unruffled thing before him. It makes Stiles want to punch down walls to get a reaction, to do something, _anything_ —

He finds himself in Derek’s lap with just about no recollection of how he came to be there. At least he isn’t the only one a little surprised, and that’s something of a problem for him because the shape Derek’s mouth makes when he’s surprised? It’s downright destructive. 

Fortunately, Stiles stops himself before he actually kisses him, but he gets stuck in the gravitational pull of Derek’s lips and can’t pull away. They’re breathing into each other, and he’d be lying if he said that isn’t some sort of weird turn-on that he doesn’t really understand. That he's never had before.

“What are you doing?” Derek whispers at him, gone too still. 

“Well, I know we had a good thing going here and that technically you won the rejection game two out of three, but I was thinking, what about best three out of five? Or, you know, I suppose you could go three for three. Can’t say I’d be exactly _surprised_ , but I suppose this is me giving it a try?”

“Why are you doing this?”

Stiles shrugs. “I feel like it? I want to? You’re pretty? What do you want me to say?” He can’t do it. Can’t tell him the real reason, the one that’ll say everything because he’s broken and not working properly. This is the best he can scare up. Shallow works.

Derek’s eyes are killing him, though. They’re beautiful, always have been, but he never gets to see them this close. How wide his pupils go, how there’s just this ring of the most clear, perfect green around them. Because he’s a collector of random facts, he knows that there are particular reasons for a person’s pupils to be dilated, but it’s not dark and he knows Derek’s not really the druggie type, so he thinks he’s reading this one right. And maybe that’s it, maybe this is what had always been the problem — Derek had liked him, sure, hadn’t _loved_ him, but _this_ is something he wants. He just never wanted the emotional strings attached. Stiles can do no-strings. He can do that fine. He’s done it plenty. And really, the secret to it is just to make sure the other person never sees the strings. So he can do it this way, if this is the way he can have Derek. He can do this just fine.

It’s almost sweet, how Derek almost jumps when Stiles slots their mouths together. Like he’s been hit by a static shock or something. Stiles gets it. See, somewhere in the objective part of his brain, there’s a voice telling him that all kissing is more or less the same, just a mechanical thing, but that part of his brain is clearly very, very stupid and has never tried kissing Derek Hale. Because, _God_ — Because he’s kissing _back_ , and this is a thing he’s never been allowed to have. It makes something warm spread inside his chest, makes his lips tingle and a small sound of joy rise from the back of his throat, unbidden and uncontrollable. 

He pulls away at the noise, offering a sheepish smile. “Sorry, I—“ Derek surges forward, hands moving to hold his face in place as he kisses him soft and lazy, like they have all the time in the world. It makes something in Stiles rupture, the thought of getting to do this all day with no interruptions. And then it turns into a series of smaller kisses that almost seem to _yearn_ , that pull Stiles closer with just a hint of suction, like his mouth is _beckoning_. It’s fucking ridiculous what it’s doing to him. 

For a weird second, Stiles opens his eyes and nearly starts to weep because of it. Because Derek’s face is scrunched, pulled forward, eyes squeezed shut and brows drawn together, almost like this is all he could possibly want. 

It’s called projection. Seeing one’s own wants and desires reflected in another person and mistakenly believing that that’s where they originate. Stiles has been in at least four psychology classes, so he knows what it’s called, what it looks like, but it’s so _good_ just to pretend for a little while that Derek might love him too. It’s a fiction, but it’s one that allows him to keep from denying himself this. Just the feeling of _Derek_ treating him like all the secret truths of existence are written on the inside of his mouth. 

The tails of his shirt are untucked so slowly, it’s like his nerve endings can feel each fiber individually as they scrape against his skin. Hands trace his sides with a stuttering sort of trepidation, like maybe he’s not sure if it’s okay yet, but Stiles just kisses him more deeply as a go ahead. It doesn’t really push anything forward in the direction of nakedness though, because all it really does is make Derek wrap his arms around Stiles’ middle, pull him closer. Almost like he’s afraid to let Stiles get away. The thought just about breaks his heart again, but it comes out in him tilting Derek’s head back and mapping out his mouth in languorous strokes of his tongue. This is not how he’s used to kissing. He’s not used to enjoying the rasp of what’s sure to be stubble burn later, or hot hands on his back that just hold him in place against a broad chest instead of going for a grope, or just wanting to cry because it feels _beautiful_ the way art is beautiful, the way poetry is beautiful: it steals his breath away and carves him hollow.

The sound of a door slamming open is startling, makes him pull away a little.

“Seriously? You’re going to do this here?” Erica asks, snorting. “You are literally the two dumbest people I have ever met.”

Derek fucking _growls_ , and it’s a weird time to notice it, but he’s still holding Stiles tight in a way that makes his heart skip and jump.

“No, seriously. After you fucked up last night, do you seriously think this is a good idea in the first place? Do you know when Maggie’s coming back? Because that’s something you might want to consider before you go scent each other and make this place smell like sex.” Part of him wants to call her out on talking to her Alpha like that, but she has a point, and it isn’t like Lydia wouldn’t say exactly the same thing. It’s a fucking terrible idea, especially here. Even if part of him wants to make the entire house smell like them so there won’t be a doubt as to who it all belongs to, but it’s stupid. 

“She’s right,” he says softly, and Derek growls a little, tightens his grip. “You kissed her. You’re hers.” _No you’re not, you’re mine_ is what he’s really thinking, but he’s never going to say it out loud. He has no real claim to Derek, doesn’t matter if they actually get around to having sex because Derek won’t be his where it counts. And that’s okay. No, it’s fine. It’s better than nothing. He’ll take what he can get. 

“I’m not hers. I just need to talk to her. This can be sorted out.”

Erica laughs. “Yeah, except for the part where she’s _in love with you_. She’s not going to just let you go. And if she’s told Daddy Dearest? You’re not going to have it easy.” She rubs the back of her neck. “Look, I don’t know _why_ you kissed her, that’s your little moment of stupid, but whatever happens here affects _all_ of us.”

“I _know_ that,” Derek says, collapsing a little into the couch. His hands stay around Stiles’ hips and maybe this is a little awkward? Erica doesn’t seem uncomfortable or anything, but it’s a little…not normal. The touching. In front of someone else. PDAs aren't really something he's used to.

“Well. This is great drama, but it’s not really my place to figure it out. So. I’ll leave you two to sort things out and when you’re done, I’ll be at home, where Maggie will most definitely never have a reason to show up _ever_ , and you can come find me if you want.” He gets up, extricating himself gingerly, heads out the door to dead silence. 

He’s at his car when he hears his name, and dammit, there’s Derek, just _standing_ there. Staring. Looking a tiny bit lost, almost. Stiles takes him in, the black t-shirt, ripped jeans with his skin peeking through, eyes that are fucking locked on him, and that’s it. He has no self control, apparently, because a second later, he’s in Derek’s arms with his legs wrapped around his waist like a goddamn octopus, and _fuck_ , Derek kisses like he’d been born to do this. How’s he supposed to say no to him? How’s he supposed to just walk away? When Derek _sighs_ into his mouth like he’s _everything_ , like he means something. That, it’s too fucking much. He’s done for. He’d let Derek fuck him on the ground right now if he wanted, or just let him kiss him for hours, doesn’t care. Whatever Derek will give him, he’ll take, Christ, he’ll just take and take and take—

His back slams against the side of the rental and Derek’s hands are on his ass, and yeah, the probability of having sex in what technically counts as the great outdoors is going up considerably. Derek just keeps licking around inside his mouth like he owns it which, yeah, he kinda does, but that’s not something he’s going to volunteer. God, but he can probably smell it on him, smell how much Stiles wants him….

Derek pulls away to mouth at his neck, to rub his nose against the underside of Stiles’ jaw. The slick press of too-long teeth, hot and jarring. There’s this weird sound, and he’s not sure what it is, more focused on the hickey Derek’s sucking into the side of his throat, only the noise doesn’t stop and after a moment, Derek unlatches himself from Stiles’ neck.

“Might as well get that.” His voice is so low, it takes him a moment to register what he’s said. And oh yeah, that’s his phone. Ringing. Fuck. 

Derek pulls it out of his back pocket for him, and he tries not to feel weird about that for some reason. It’s his dad calling, so maybe it’s right to feel a little weird. 

“Uh, hey, Dad. What’s up?”

“You’re going to the store, right?” Fuck, groceries. He'd completely forgotten.

He bites his lip a little. “Yeah, no. I am. Did you need something?”

“We’re out of paper towels.” Derek chooses that moment to roll his hips against Stiles’, like he’s _bored_ or something, but it makes Stiles make a choked-off noise he has to turn into words. 

“G—Great. I’ll get some. Towels. I’ll get some paper towels. Anything else?” Yeah, Derek needs to stop that _now_. Stiles pushes his hand against his chest which, okay, bad idea because his chest is fucking distracting. 

“Do you remember that talk we had earlier today?”

 _Shitshitshit_. “Yeah. Of course. Why?”

“Because Derek breathes loudly—“ Stiles thinks he might be dead now “—so remember our talk. Or we’ll have another that will be far less pleasant. We clear? Good. And hello, Derek. Consider this a friendly reminder to look at your life and look at your choices. Have a nice day.” His dad hangs up immediately after that, and Stiles is left very embarrassed and a little uncomfortable. Derek sort of eases his legs from around his hips and sets him on his feet. He takes almost a full step back, and isn’t that just fantastic?

“Wow. Cock-blocked by my own father. Great. Really living the dream here.”

Derek looks at him, mostly at his mouth, but lifts his eyes up after a moment and shrugs. “He’s right. It’s a bad idea. We should stop until things calm down a little.” 

Stiles wants to punch something because suddenly, he’s _so close_ , and then just as suddenly, everything’s out of reach again. The back of his head hits the car with a _thud_ , and he sighs loudly. Why is he even alive, really? His life is just some giant cosmic joke. That’s all he is: a punchline. And it isn’t even funny. 

“What did your dad say to you earlier?”

“Oh, the usual. Told me not to be a homewrecker. That sort of thing. He thinks Maggie’s your girlfriend, by the way. Which means _she_ probably does. Which means this is all stupid and pointless and I should really be going, shouldn’t I?” Derek slides his palms against Stiles’ cheek, warm and too comforting. 

“I….” He trails off, looking into Stiles eyes in a way that makes him numb. “You should go. Too many people know about this. It’s…The timing is all wrong, do you understand? It’s not the right time to get messed up in this now. Don’t come here. Don’t try to find me.” Stiles thinks he’s going to stalk away, but instead, he leans in and kisses him brokenly, a chaste ache against his lips that doesn’t last long enough. 

He presses his fingers to his lips as he watches Derek walk away, almost as if he can hold the memory of the kiss hostage. 

 

When he’s few miles away, he pulls over to the side of the road, knuckles tight around the steering wheel, and _screams_. Shakes himself. Beats his head against the steering wheel. 

When he’s calm again, he breathes deeply, over and over, long, shuddering breaths. Just breathes. 

 _You’re going to be okay_.

He says it to himself over and over, clutching the wheel in a prayer. Maybe it’s something he can wish into being. If he says it enough times, it’ll be true after a while. Yeah. If he thinks like this, he can survive.


	5. Chapter 5

In the end, he stops at Scott and Allison’s house before the grocery store. Scott answers the door. Frowns. Looks him up and down. 

“You smell like Derek. Like, _bad_. It’s _all_ over you.” 

Stiles sighs. “I know. Just, if it comes to it, you can offer me up as a sacrifice to appease them or something. This is me giving you expressed permission to do it. Just so you know.” 

Scott pulls him in the house, into the kitchen. Allison and the girls aren’t here, or they’re being impressively quiet. 

“What’s this about a sacrifice?”

“You know. If they want blood. Or however you were-people do it.”

“Still not following. Let’s start somewhere that makes sense?” Stiles doesn’t have the patience or emotional stamina to run through all of it, so he keeps it brief.

“I like Derek, okay? Always have and it’s stupid, so I don’t need to hear that right now, but I ran into him for the first real time since coming into town last night, and Maggie was there, and he was all Mr. Grumpy Claws. Well, he and Maggie kissed, only she had to leave, and then I got drunk and tried something with him which apparently wasn’t okay, only I went to go talk to him today and we kind of made out for a while, which would be totally great if it weren’t for the fact that Maggie thinks they’re dating so Derek and I can’t see each other at all really until he fixes everything. Basically.” 

Scott looks a little…overwhelmed.

“But, I mean, he may or may not actually be fixing anything at all because we’re not, like, secretly dating or anything. It’s just sex. That we haven’t had yet. So there’s that.” So, he may have overloaded Scott’s brain with weird information. It kind of looks like it. A bit. But that’s okay. He can wait for Scott to process. For a very little while. 

“So, okay. Then what’s the problem? If it’s just…if it’s just _things I never want to picture you doing_ , then isn’t everything fine? You can just keep your distance for a little while? That sounds like it could work. Or am I still confused?”

Stiles slumps a little. “No, that’s basically it. You’re right. I’m freaking out over nothing.” He doesn’t know how to explain the truth to Scott without it sounding cheesy and wrong. Fake. “You know, I should go. I’ve got stuff to do. Shopping. That sort of thing. I’ll see you around.” He’s running away before Scott can stop him. Nothing lost, nothing gained. 

 

That night, Stiles is in the shower when the phone rings, but when he comes down to the living room, his dad’s face is impassive. Not a good sign. 

“We have dinner plans the night after tomorrow,” he says, not looking away from the television. “Derek’s invited us to a pack dinner with everyone. The Argents, the Dents, and all the kids.”

“Who’re the Dents?” 

His dad snaps around to give him a sharp look. “Derek’s girlfriend’s family. You should know that much at least, since you’re fooling around behind her back.” Stiles blinks slowly. Great. Just what he wants to get into right now. 

“We’re not, okay? Not until he fixes things with her. We didn’t sleep together or anything anyway, so calm down.” 

“ _Calm down_? Do you understand what you’re dealing with? These aren’t _normal people_ , Stiles. They’re goddamn _werewolves_. They’re stronger and faster and not a single one of them is human. They operate by our laws as a _courtesy_ , but the second they choose, they stop having limits. I don’t want to see you get killed because you thought you were having a good time. I can’t handle that.” 

He’s gone mute. What could he possibly say to that? What, _sorry I don’t care about my personal safety or your emotional health_? God, he’s being so selfish about it, too. He’s put Derek in a bad situation, he’s dragged Lydia and Scott into it by telling them, and he’s hurting by-extension a nice woman he barely even knows. And for what? A little peace of mind? See, ten years ago, he wouldn’t have made these mistakes. Ten years ago, he’d known that his problems are his alone, that sharing them just makes things harder for everyone else. How had he forgotten? Oh, yeah, he’s not used to having real friends. Not used to potential danger anymore, at least not this kind. He’d forgotten what it’s like. 

But not anymore. He’s done screwing up. No, he’ll keep his head down, be a better friend, a better son. He’ll stop doing things just because he wants to. This can be the place where everyone is happy, but only if he stops counting himself as a part of everyone. He can do that. Again. 

 

Stiles spends the next days running errands, stupid things like premature oil changes and new curtains and donating his old crap, and he cleans. He busies himself any way he can. Takes his dad to a movie, something not too violent and easy to follow, but something to get him out of the house a little. The whole idea of filling his time to distract himself is a bad one, but it’s better than nothing. He can’t sit around because he’ll want to move, and if he moves, chances are, he’ll be going to Derek’s house because he’s still working on his self-control. It’s not easy, but he’s getting there. Every time he thinks about Derek, he reminds himself of what’s at stake, and he can push it all away. It’s hard sometimes, but it works.

 

By the time the dinner comes around, he feels solid and tough. It’s not going to be uncomfortable or painful. It’s not impossible in any way. He’s going to be his normal, charming self, and he’s not going to look at Derek for too long or anything. It’s going to be fine. 

 

It’s not fine. 

He’d grossly underestimated what such a crowd would be like. How there’s so _many_ of them. He sits in the car, frozen, watching other people walk up to the house, until his dad speaks. 

“Worrying about it isn’t going to help. Let’s just get it over with. Come on.” 

It’s what he needs. 

They get out of the car and heads for the group. Nat breaks free of Scott’s grasp and comes running. He picks her up and spins her in the air, grinning because she’s good and pure and worth protecting. Scott waves them over when he sees who she’s run to, and Stiles puts the girl down.

“You go run back to your daddy, okay? I’ll be there in a minute.” His dad walks slow now, partially because he’s weak, partially to keep his heart rate down while he’s healing. Stiles takes him by the arm and walks with him. Lydia sees him and wraps him in a quick hug, gives him a light kiss on the cheek.

“I’d hoped we’d be seeing you tonight.” She turns to his dad. “How’s it going, Sheriff?” His dad smiles and starts talking to her while Stiles joins Scott, hugs him, kisses Allison’s cheek and greets Noelle, who’s on her mother’s hip. Jackson looks only a little surprised to see him. There’s an awkward moment where neither of them are sure if a hug is appropriate, and they settle on a firm handshake. He’s got Shane wrapped around his leg.

“Hey, little man. What’s up?” 

“Not much,” the boy says before removing himself from his dad and going over to Nat and Jo, who are turning cartwheels. Closer to the door, he sees Erica, Isaac, and Boyd. He waves, trying to be friendly. The only one who waves back with any friendliness is Boyd. Isaac winks knowingly and Erica makes a kissy face at him. They turn into each other and laugh.

When Stiles turns back around, his dad is talking to Chris Argent. They seem pretty chummy, actually. 

He talks to people, talks to anyone he can, because talking’s easy. Talking’s what he does best. It lets him watch everyone else, take in his surroundings. No sign of either Derek or Maggie, but that’s alright. He’s a little curious as to why they’re still outside, but by the time he gets it in his head to ask someone about it, a sleek black car pulls up. A man a little older than his dad, but with somewhat darker hair, gets out of the driver’s side. Maggie comes around from the passenger side, grinning, talking to someone behind her, and he realizes that it’s not just her and her dad; she has brothers. Three of them, it looks like. Younger, but not by much — the youngest is probably around twenty — and all pretty muscular, which Stiles is certain is a werewolf thing. Two of them have her sandy hair, twins, and the younger has darker hair, buzzed like Stiles used to wear his. 

He doesn’t even register the body brushing past him until he sees Derek’s back surging forward through the crowd to greet them. He’s wearing a navy dress shirt, tucked in, but his sleeves are rolled up nearly to his elbows, showing off his forearms and okay. Now Stiles is going to stop checking him out. Right. 

Derek seems to be friendly with the patriarch, somewhat less familiar with the brothers, but he’s certainly met them before. He greets Maggie with a hug, not with a kiss, which is something, but she takes his arm as he leads everyone into the house. 

Stiles very pointedly does not look at the couch he and Derek made out on, even if they’re moving through the room a tiny bit slow because he’s keeping pace with his dad. It’s like a rushing sound in his ears, the want to just go right back to where they were, to grab Derek by his shirt and claim him in front of all of these people. But that’s how wars are started, that’s how people get hurt, so he won’t. 

Figuring out seating turns out to be an adventure. For one, there aren’t actually enough chairs. Isaac, Boyd, and Erica disappear and come back with a few that probably come from upstairs. A high chair appears and there’s a bit of shuffling and the agreement that the kids will just sit on laps after all. Through the chaos, Stiles pretends he isn’t watching Derek, how he’s pretending he isn’t flustered and embarrassed at being under-prepared. He makes up for it by being an excellent host; he makes sure everyone has a seat, that Chris will take Jo so Allison can have her lap empty, since she’s feeding Noelle, and eventually comes around to Stiles and his dad.

“Most of the crowd is pretty fond of red meat, I’m afraid, but there are plenty of vegetables and some salmon and rice. I’m not sure what your dietary restrictions are.” Stiles looks away as his father grins, touched. Derek’s a fucking charmer when he wants to be, and the fact that he’s actually considerate is fucking awful. 

He only sort of glances at Stiles, eyes resting on him for just long enough to give a swift nod, then he’s moving around the table, making sure everyone’s happy. 

Isaac and Boyd bring the food in as he starts to get back to his own end of the table. There are dishes upon dishes, and really, they just keep coming. It’s ridiculous. They must have been busy _all day_. It’s around that time, though, that Stiles starts to take in seating arrangements. Derek’s at the head of the table, of course, with Scott, his second, on his right, but Maggie’s on his left, her father and brothers filing down that side. Scott’s side has Allison and her dad and Jackson and Lydia, all of them with kids. Somehow, there ends up being a major flaw to the seating: Stiles is at the end opposite Derek. No one seems to notice, which is really for the best, but it makes him nervous. 

And really, it isn’t actually true that no one notices. When everything is ready and everyone’s sitting, he sees Derek look up at him without really looking _at_ him, and he just _knows_ he knows that it’s suggestive, the seating, even though it’s more than likely accidental. He can tell. Stiles pretty much reads people for a living; he’s not missing a single cue here. 

The dinner’s only a little bit tense. It isn’t actually _that_ bad. There are too many people for everyone to be a part of the same conversation, so it splits off a little. Stiles takes turns talking to Jackson, Lydia, and Shane, and with Cory, one of Maggie’s younger brothers. Apparently, _she has five_. The oldest of them is currently holding the fort, and there’s a middle one at school on the East Coast. He apparently plays rugby. Great. They’re apparently really close, the six of them, too.  

He’s trying to not see them as a small army, really trying, but it’s not going so well. 

“Excuse me for a moment,” he says, sliding away from the table. He’s hoping they didn’t remodel so much that the bathroom has been relocated. He’s going to have enough trouble remembering where it is in the first place.

He can’t just pass through the main room, though. He stops against his will and looks at the couch, then makes a half-hearted attempt at peek at the upstairs. Part of him really wants to just head up there, poke around a little, but he stops himself. If he does that, he’s going to end up lying on Derek’s bed and probably cry when he smells him in his pillows. That’s not healthy, and besides that, Derek would know as soon as he goes to bed. It would be horribly pathetic.

“I was just going for the dessert….” he hears from behind him. Stiles turns. Derek’s got his lips pressed together and one hand extended a little in an aborted gesture. Almost like he’d been going to reach out towards him.

“You should do that,” he says, nodding, numb. 

“Will you help me?”

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek. “I was going to the restroom, actually.” Derek starts walking towards him, eyes a little wide.

“I’ll show you there,” he says, like he’s just being a good host. “Let me lead the way.” His hand closes around Stiles wrist, and he’s helpless to not follow. It’s bad, it’s really bad, but he can’t _not_ go with him. Can’t refuse. 

They stop at a door. Derek doesn’t push him against the wall or anything, but he stands close, not quite touching, and looks at him like he wants nothing more than to kiss Stiles. It’s not safe, not okay, not with those people in there. So he does the right thing and pulls away into the bathroom, shuts the door. His hands are shaking, so he turns on the faucet, lets it run. He can _feel_ Derek’s presence outside the door, knows he’s there.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he whispers. He’s not sure what the volume limit is, so he keeps it neutral, but he hears the slight creak of Derek walking away. It makes him let out a sigh of relief. If Derek hadn’t gone, if he’d tried for real, Stiles probably would have done it. Would’ve let Derek kiss him within an inch of his life and leave his scent all over him. 

And then someone would inevitably die because that’s how his luck works.

_Jesus, why can’t he just get to have nice things once in a while?_

A minute or two later, he leaves the bathroom, wipes his wet hands on his jeans. Just as Derek comes back into the main room. Because apparently, he has the worst timing in the world. 

“Will you help me? There are three plates left, and it’ll save me a trip.” Now he can’t say no or he’ll look like a jerk. Someone will hear him being a jerk and he won’t have a good excuse for why he can’t just offer a hand. 

“Sure,” he says and follows Derek into the kitchen. 

The worst thing about it, too, is that the kitchen looks _used_. It looks like it’s a functioning part of the house. The sink is stacked high with pots and pans that still need to be washed. It’s such a normal thing. 

“Wait,” he says, something hitting him, “did you make dinner yourself? All of this?”

Derek shrugs. “Isaac, Allison, and Jackson helped a lot. It was definitely a group effort.” What Stiles wouldn’t give to get to do something stupidly domestic like cook a meal with him. Fuck, he’s whipped or something. “Here. Take this one because it’s…I used some recipe I found online. It’s healthier. It wouldn’t be very polite to have cake if not everyone can eat it.” He presses this smallish cake on a platter into his hands, and Stiles just stares at it. Almost confused.

“You made a cake specifically for my dad?” he asks quietly. Derek doesn’t say anything, but he gives a half-shrug that says a lot. Why does he have to be perfect? Why does he have to actually be an amazing person? How is that fair? He just makes it so _hard_ to not love him, and shit, it’s like he doesn’t even know. 

Only he’s taking the plate from Stiles’ hands now, setting it down on the counter. Derek’s hands are almost at his face when Stiles realizes what’s happening and jumps backward. 

 _What are you doing?_ He mouths angrily, flailing a little, pointing. _Maggie and her family are_ ** _right_** _in the next room and you’re going to try this here? Are you stupid_? Derek backs away, head dropping. He nods after a second, then sort of rolls his shoulders, straightens his spine. Without looking at Stiles again, he takes a platter in each hand. Stiles rushes a little to keep up, angry and raw. Everything’s just so fucked up, that’s all it is, clearly. This is just another example of his life sucker-punching him just because it can, because his life is a giant bastard who wants nothing more than to shit all over any chance he has at happiness. 

His dad gives him the smallest look when he sits back down, glancing at Derek in a way that can’t be mistaken. Stiles shakes his head minutely. His throat is sore, and he knows it won’t really help, but he gulps down his water like it’s no one’s business. He can get through this. He’ll be fine. If there’s one thing for sure, it’s that he’ll be fine. 

 

The great thing is, he actually makes it. Not only does he manage to survive, but as people start heading home, Maggie corners him with her father, Samuel.

“Here, Dad, this is Stiles. I’d meant to introduce you earlier, but you know how it is.” Stiles shakes the man’s hand, doing his best to remain very, very calm. 

“It’s nice to meet you, sir. Allow me to introduce my father, Sheriff Stilinski.” He’s never been good at introductions, but the Alpha doesn’t seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t make it clear. Which is good. Stiles is nervous enough already. Also good is that they seem to be involved in a conversation now, so he doesn’t have to figure out what to say to him.

“Are you doing anything tomorrow?” Maggie asks him. “If you are, it’s fine, I was just wondering if you wanted to do lunch?”

What’s he supposed to say? _No_? _Sorry, too busy pining for the man you think is your boyfriend_? Besides that, she’s not bad or annoying or anything. It wouldn’t actually suck to talk to her. 

“Yeah, that sounds great. What about The Pavillion? It’s a little expensive, considering the quality, but it’s a nice place. They have nice salads and whatnot.” To be honest, he remembers really hating the place, and he’d only ever been there with Lydia, back when he’d still been hopelessly trying to woo her. It’s more Lydia’s kind of place, but he’ll stomach it for Maggie. 

She laughs softly. “I’m not really a salad kind of girl, to be honest. A burger and beer are more my style.” Stiles grins, swallowing back bile in his throat. Of course she’s a fucking likable person. _Of course_.

“Rudy’s, then? Best burger around these parts unless you wanna pay twenty bucks for it. And their curly fries pretty much eliminate the competition.” 

“Sounds good.” She glances at their fathers, still talking. “I think Derek’s showing my dad and brothers around tomorrow. It’s the first time they’ve really _visited_ , so they’re doing some sort of tour thing. The town car is a little _too_ classy, if you get what I mean, so is there anyway you could pick me up? I know this place is basically completely out of the way, so if it’s too much trouble—“

“No, it’s fine. I’ll swing by around noon?”

“Sweet.” The way she smiles, for some reason, reminds him of childhood. Like her smile belongs on a little girl with mud on her knees and leaves in her hair, the sort of girl who plays rough with the boys because she’s not afraid of them in the slightest and knows she can kick their asses. That’s kind of the worst thing, too, that she’s someone Stiles actually genuinely likes, someone he’d probably be good friends with if they had grown up together.

It looks like their fathers’ conversation is wrapping up, and Stiles can see that his dad is getting tired, so he throws out some courtesy at the admittedly-intimidating Dent and Maggie and maneuvers his dad to the car. It’s a good thing, too, because by the time they hit the main road, his dad is dozing off. It gives him time to repeat to himself a few times over that he’s going to be a good son, that he’s not going to put any of his friends in danger. He knows he’s doing a good job at that, too, because he didn’t even say goodbye to Derek before leaving, just asked Maggie to pass it on. See, he won’t take any possible excuse to see him. Stiles is smarter than that. He’s better than that. No one’s going to get hurt on his account. Not if he can help it.

 

Derek’s car is parked out front when he goes to pick up Maggie, but he refuses to consider going up to the door. Another awkward encounter because of the possibility of listening ears? No thank you. Besides, he’d maybe had something of a weird breakdown the night before, no thanks to Derek, so there’s that. And for a good reason, too. Stiles is the sort of person who tends to sleep the whole night through, unless he’s having nightmares, which he hasn’t for a good several months. So when he wakes up in the middle of the early morning for no reason? Suspicious. He’d had minor flashbacks to when Derek would randomly appear in his room at night (which had started as Derek growling and glaring and turned into impromptu movie nights), so it really wasn’t that odd that he’d honestly thought Derek had done something obscenely stupid, like come to his house in the middle of the night. Which he hadn’t, since, as it happened, Stiles had been the only one in his room. 

The passenger side door opens and Maggie slides in, saying, “Go go go go go! There’s one hell of a pissing contest going on in there that I am _so_ glad to be out of. You’re my knight in shining armor. Seriously.” He can’t help but quirk a little bit of a smile as he pulls off and heads down the access road. She’s wearing jeans and a tank top with a flannel shirt over, and seriously? She’s a fucking real person, and it’s ridiculous. Why couldn’t she be a prissy, overly-possessive bitch so he could just hate her and feel good about it?

“So what happened? Someone try to tell Erica they can run faster than her?”

Maggie snorted, shaking her head. “No, my brothers are just idiots. Actually, we’re lucky Des wasn’t here because _that_ would have gotten out of hand. But you know how it is. Someone says their teeth are longer or some bullshit like that, someone gets pissed off, and soon you’re staring at a pile of wrestling puppies.” Stiles laughs because that’s _exactly_ how he remembers it. Scott and Jackson used to start fights at the drop of a hat, and pretty soon, the whole pack would end up pulled into it. Well, mostly. He and Derek would sit off to the side and watch because _they were above silly things like that_ , at least until they were physically dragged into the mess. 

“Cory was telling me last night that you’ve got some experience with it. I can’t imagine what it’s like to have five brothers.”

“Oh, it was certainly interesting growing up. I mean, since I’m the oldest, it was probably easier than it could have been. Five _older_ brothers? That would have been horrible. I can’t imagine. What about you? Brothers? Sisters?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Nah, just me. I think I was all the kid my parents could handle. I was a total spaz, always in trouble. I don’t think I grew out of it until college.” He’s not going to think too hard about why that is, about all the stupid things he did back then, the lines he shouldn’t have crossed but did. Yeah, it took him quite a while to get to the point where he could be considered even vaguely normal and okay. 

 

They snag a booth at Rudy’s. It’s a little weird at first, how fast the place comes back to him, the use-smoothed wooden tables, the heavy benches, the biker-chic decor. He’s pretty sure that the last time he’d come here, it had been with Derek, who’d looked so intimidating that the waitress hadn’t questioned him when he’d ordered them both beers. He’s not going to feel weird about that memory. It’s the kind of memory a friend has, which is what they’d been, so he’s not going to freak out about it. 

“This place is great. How’d you find it?” Maggie says, grinning.

“Derek. Back in the day. We came here a couple times.” He doesn’t say that it was usually just them, even though, thinking about it, there really were a lot of things they did as just the two of them. But she doesn’t need to know that.

“You two were pretty good friends, weren’t you? It’s…we think of friends differently, you know? Within the pack, you just have the ones you get along with and the ones you don’t, but you’re still with them most of the time, still pack. Friends don’t necessarily come into the equation, but it’s different for humans, from what I’ve gathered. I just think it would be interesting, seeing all this from your perspective. Especially since, from what I understand, you were there when the pack came together? How’d that all happen?”

“Well, it took a while. I was Scott’s friend first. He got turned by Derek’s crazy uncle, who he ended up killing to become the Alpha. So he turned Isaac, Erica, and Boyd, only Scott wasn’t really into the idea of joining his pack. And then Jackson…well, he was turned, but he had some issues for a little while, and there was a lot of fighting. Basically, it was kind of ugly for a long time. It’s, well, Scott and Allison were a thing back then, same with Jackson and Lydia, and Erica, Boyd, and Isaac were kind of useless at the time, so when we had some seriously trouble with the hunters, Derek and I ended up teaming up, and we just started talking about all of us banding together to fix everything. In the end, we kind of pulled everyone together. Took some brute force and a _tiny tiny_ bit of trickery, but it happened.”

Maggie smiles, head resting on one of her hands. “That’s impressive. I mean, for someone who never took the bite. Why is that, by the way? I don’t know, I guess it just seems like you might, if you’ve been around everyone so long.” Stiles shrugs, thinking about it. Yeah, there had been times when he’d considered asking Derek to just turn him already, but usually those were the lows. Most of the time, he’d liked being human. He’d taken pride in it. He’s glad he never asked, really, because if he had, he never would have left this place. 

“It was just never my thing.” 

She nods like she doesn’t completely understand, and a guy comes over to hand them menus and take their drink orders. They chat a little about what they’re getting, but it’s not until after the waiter comes back that they start really talking again. 

“So, the family’s staying at Derek’s?” he asks, taking a sip of his beer. 

“Yeah.” She makes a face. “There are _way_ too many of us, to be honest. Erica and Isaac are staying with Boyd, I think, while we’re in town. Honestly, I think this whole thing is stupid. My dad basically _demanded_ to visit, which is kind of a bitch move, but whatever. So it’s packed and what with my dad interrogating Derek over breakfast, it’s just a really awkward situation.”

“Worried that he’s not good enough?”

Maggie shakes her head, looking like she’s completely exhausted of the whole ordeal. “I wish. He’s asking about _kids_ and stuff. It’s ridiculous. I mean, it’s not like it’s set in stone or anything that we’re going to be together, but my dad doesn’t really understand how things work these days. He’s _way_ too old-fashioned in some ways. Doesn’t get that people don’t just fall in love and have kids these days. Sometimes they just date.” Stiles nods, getting a better picture of the whole thing. “Can I ask you something? I don’t want to force you to answer or anything.”

“Shoot.” The preface to the question makes him nervous, but there’s not much he can do.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I just kind of wondered…did you ever have feelings for him? Derek, I mean.”

Well, there it is. Just thrown out in the open like that. It’s not like he can lie, either. Even if she’s not trying, she’ll hear his pulse, she’ll know he’s not telling the truth. And if he lies, that’ll bring up the question of _why_ , so he has to tell the truth. 

“Yeah. I mean, it was kind of hard not to. I was an awkward, sexually-confused kid and he…well, he made things a little less confusing.” There. That sounds reasonable. That sounds like something innocent, and it’s still true. Maggie smiles, and he finds himself going on. “I left when I realized he didn’t feel anything for me. It was a little abrupt, I guess, and in the interests of friendship, it wasn’t really fair, but what can I say? Sometimes you have to do what you have to do.” 

“Yeah. I know how that is. _Trust me_. I’ve been on the wrong side of unrequited love too many times to count.” 

It’s a weird switch, but suddenly they’re sharing stories of their failed relationships. Stiles leaves out Louis, but he’s still got quite a few good stories. Some from college, some about Derek even. Like the pseudo-triple dates they used to go on with Scott and Allison and Jackson and Lydia, all of the stupid things Stiles ever did to get his attention and failed miserably, but also things like his first walk of shame, on which he ran into not one but _three_ of his professors, and the time one of his friends set him up on a blind date with a guy who turned out to be completely straight and was therefore _not pleased_. Maggie’s got plenty of stories of her own, too, and in some ways, it’s almost worse like this. Like they’re friends even though he knows he’s hurting her. It’s painful and wrong. 

 

When he drops Maggie off back at the Hale place, he curses himself a little. Curses Derek. Why can’t he just be in love with her? It’s not that hard, really. She’s not bitchy or mean, eats huge burgers and wipes her hands on her jeans and she snorts when she laughs. Better than that, she’s not the kind of woman who takes pride in saying that she’s “not like the other girls”. In the very worst way, he just needs Derek to love her. So Stiles wants Derek for himself, but he’s used to not having him. He’s had a lot of practice; he can _handle_ it. Will he be happy? Not a chance. But everyone will be okay. He’ll be the only one to know that everything didn’t work out well for everyone. And no, he’ll never come back here again because the thought of seeing Derek with someone else’s children actually _will_ kill him, but he can handle knowing that two people he likes are happy with each other. 

But this mess? Where Derek’s just fooling around with him, just trying to get some action, and even if he hasn’t said anything either way, who knows if he doesn’t have real feelings for Maggie and Stiles is just being a distraction? It’s terrible, and she has no idea what’s going on. Obviously, he can’t tell her because he can’t do that to a person, but it’s horrible. 

It’s all fucked up and it’s all his fault. If he’d only just _told_ Derek how he feels, they wouldn’t be in this mess because Derek wouldn’t want to fuck around with someone hopelessly in love with him still. If only he could have been brave.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I was without any internet access for a few days, but enjoy!  
> ALSO  
> Warnings at the end

When he comes home, head hung low, Stiles’ dad looks at him with something like pity. “That bad?” 

“No. Actually, it was great.” He sighs. “Really great. She wants to do coffee sometime tomorrow afternoon.” Because they actually like talking to each other, which is unexpected and awful. 

“You’re doing a good thing, you know. I’m proud of you. I know it’s hard.” 

Stiles sighs. “Thanks, Dad.” 

“Hey, I’ve got some more paperwork to finish up. I could use an extra set of hands and eyes.” Stiles smiles, stretches his fingers out in front of him. _This_ is something he can handle right now. 

“Sure. Let’s get to it.”

They work through the time Stiles would’ve liked to assign for dinner, and by the time their eyes are too tired to continue, it’s pretty late. He’s lazy, tired, and the idea of cooking up a meal is exhausting in itself, let alone in practice. 

“I draw the line at meaty toppings, but how do you feel about pizza?” he asks after they’ve officially backed away from the papers on the table in front of them.

“Sounds like an excellent idea.” 

Stiles rolls his shoulders a little, preparing to get up. “Well, I refuse to fill you with greasy junk, so I’m heading to Julio’s.” Julio’s being the nice, classy pizza joint in town, with giant thin crust pizzas that pretty much knock the socks of most of the food in town, the only problem being that they don’t deliver. “I’ll be back in a bit. Try not to get in any trouble while I’m gone,” he says with a grin. 

“That’s going to be difficult, if by ‘trouble’ you mean ‘nap’.” Stiles grabs his jacket and keys as his dad settles into the couch and turns on the TV, pleased. He’ll get to have a beer or two while he waits, get to have awesome pizza, and won’t have to cook a thing. Awesome. “Don’t forget to lock up behind you,” his dad says, eyes closed. 

Stiles rolls his eyes before he heads out the door. Nearly stops before he rushes out and locks the door behind him quickly, then faces the man walking up to his porch. 

“You need to leave,” he whispers urgently. “My dad is _right_ inside and this is a terrible idea anyway.” Derek crowds him back against the door, eyes searching.

“I know, but I had to see you.” One of his hands cradles Stiles’ jaw, leeching away his urge to resist. 

“We can’t _do_ this. It isn’t safe. Do they even know you’re gone?” 

Derek’s leaning in, so close already, close enough that Stiles can feel his breath against his face when he whispers, “I told them I was checking on my pack. That should buy us a few hours.” 

It makes him ashamed, but Stiles is the one who leans in for the kiss. Derek meets him in a surge, pressing back, pressing in, tongue sneaking past the corner of his mouth. It’s not something Stiles would ever want to admit, how he sinks into him, all fight gone. He’s forgotten how to resist, how to tell him that this is wrong, that this is a bad idea, with his dad just behind the wall—

“Stop, no. I can’t do this. Not here.” His voice is more ragged than he’d like to admit, but Derek seems to listen to him. 

“Where can we go?” 

Stiles shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know. Mars? Because that sounds like it’s far enough away.” The look he gets is equal parts annoyed and something else. “Look, I have to go get a pizza or my dad’s going to be suspicious. I—“ It’s a bad idea, but he can’t stop himself from saying it “—You can come with me if you want.” Derek nods and pulls him away, by the hand, and Jesus, if that isn’t the weirdest thing. That he’s technically holding hands with Derek Hale. 

They start towards Derek’s car, but Stiles stops him.

“We can’t. It’s less likely anyone’ll see anything if we take mine. Come on.” He doesn’t even do anything stupid, like try not to let Stiles drive. No, he slides into the passenger seat without complaint. And maybe when they’re about halfway there, his hand moves to Stiles’ thigh. For just a moment, he thinks of what it would be like if there was only this, only them, maybe going out for a date, maybe coming home after one, just driving through the night in a comfortable silence as a real couple. 

Even though they don’t have that, they won’t ever have that, he still lays his hand on top of Derek’s with a soft sigh.

“Wait here,” he says after he parks. It’s a bit late and a week night, so there aren’t many cars in the parking lot, so maybe it looks suspicious that he’d parked in the furthest spot, but whatever. He goes in, he orders, and his hands won’t stop shaking, but the older man at the counter doesn’t say anything about, just tells him it’ll be a little more than twenty minutes. In almost a haze, he mumbles something about going to run an errand quickly in the meantime and heads out the door. 

The worst thing is, he starts running halfway across the parking lot. It’s pathetic and needy, but he can’t stop himself, just runs to the passenger side, throws open the door and pretty much falls into Derek’s lap. Derek at least has the common sense to shut the door behind him, which is good because Stiles is busy trying to find the recline lever so he can put the seat back. A sharp, wet heat at his neck tells him that the man beneath him has decided to do something with his mouth that’s far too distracting, making it _way_ more difficult than it should be to just find that damn lever. At last, he finds it, on the side, down past Derek’s thigh, and there’s a sudden shift as the seat falls back. Derek’s mouth had left him with a wet noise, but Stiles finds it, finds him, pressing his open mouth against the other man’s lips. 

His hips are rolling almost against his will, pressing in as Derek arches up, as Derek grabs him by the ass with a groan and fucking _grinds_ them together. It takes longer than he’d like to get his jacket off, his shirt over his head, because he can barely fucking move in the space, but it takes even longer to yank Derek up into a semi-sitting position and get his shirt off as well. And _fuck_. 

“Merciful God, I’d almost forgotten,” he whispers, tracing the outlines of the muscles on Derek’s chest and stomach. He quivers under Stiles’ touch, abdomen rippling in fits and starts. There’s a very thin sheen of sweat on him, and it’s going to get worse soon because the car’s turning into some sort of hotbox, but Stiles can’t help but lean down and trace a collarbone with his tongue. Derek’s hands fumble with his belt for a moment before they slide, hot and heavy, around to his back, sliding down down down past the top of his jeans. With a groan, Stiles bears down, making a stunted thrust. His mouth is busy trying to learn the shape of Derek’s throat, but _fuck_ is that friction good. It’s too much to try to keep up with both that and setting some sort of rhythm, so he ends up just giving up, allowing Derek to maneuver him into a good place for both of them. 

And yeah, it feels like fucking heaven, like the heaven he’d never thought he’d get to taste, but Stiles is greedy and desperate. He wants more, not just more than a half-way chaste hump in a car, but more than this sneaking around. Part of him wants to sob into Derek’s shoulder at how much he can’t have that, and God, he almost does, knowing that he could probably play it off as some other noise. It’s good, it’s so good, but he knows that it has to end sometime. That’s more than he can deal with. 

Derek finds his mouth after a few tries that land on his cheek or miss completely, sucks on his tongue until Stiles _does_ sob a little. Because part of him _needs_ this. Derek’s mouth, kissing him like he’s the only thing that matters in the entire universe. The press of his body, chasing away thoughts of anything else. Pressure that’s almost not enough. The way it shoots through him, too fast and too hard, like his heart’s been turned into a gun, firing bullets through his veins. And when he tries to find something to hold onto, his hands slip, slick with sweat, scrabbling between their bodies, and he just thinks, _We made this. This heat, this miracle: this is something we made all by ourselves and no one can take this from us_. _This much is ours_.

The way Derek groans into his mouth is raw and almost guttural, a noise that goes straight to his dick, makes him grab Derek’s hair for dear life. They’re hurtling down the road at a speed that makes his teeth ache, roaring down some far off stretch of asphalt that forgives nothing, and there’s a bend up ahead, a curve, coming up fast, and they’re spinning the wheel, holding it tight, only it’s not enough and they’re spinning and they’re _spinning_ ….

Stiles gasps for breath against Derek’s neck, feeling the frantic rise and fall in the other man’s chest. His hand moves, fingers slightly numb, until he feels Derek’s pulse thudding against him. Real and _there_. There’s a beating heart beneath his hand, and something about that is amazing. That he’s so close to what’s keeping Derek alive. That’s where the reverence comes from, isn’t it though? The holy romantic significance for the heart — adoration for the life it gives, more than anything else. It’s the person it beats inside of that makes it beautiful and important. Now he understands. 

A thumb runs over his pectoral muscle, just below where he knows there are two white stars of scar tissue. Derek doesn’t touch them, just lets his thumb run idly around. 

“What happened?” he says. There’s something of a quake to his voice, but then, his breathing isn’t quite normal yet. 

“I got shot.” 

“Yeah, I can see that. I wasn’t asking that.” Stiles feels his pulse again for a moment, thinking about it. He wants to tell Derek, he does, wants to tell him everything that he’s never told anyone who wasn’t there. But he hesitates. Afraid, he glances up at Derek’s face, and that does it. That look. Just staring down at him like he’s the only thing in the world, and maybe, maybe for just this moment, he is. And that’s enough.

“I was dating this guy. Louis. Well, a little more than dating, I guess. We lived together for a little while—“ he’s pretty sure he’s imagining the way Derek stiffens “—and he was a little…off-balance, I guess. I mostly pretended I didn’t see it, but one day, at work, I spilled coffee all over my shirt. Kind of a normal thing for me, but I’d worn my spare home the day before, so one of my friends let me borrow his. So, I get home and almost immediately, Louis notices that it’s not my shirt and it’s not his and he just starts yelling, thinks I’m sleeping with this other guy, that I have been for months. It’s all bullshit, so I tell him so, only he doesn’t like that so much and he yanks my gun off my holster and shoots me. Twice. Then runs. I end up bleeding on my kitchen floor, dialing 9-1-1, only it’s a little too much for my body to handle, and halfway through the call, I pass out. I guess an ambulance comes or something, but I wake up the next day on a hospital bed.” Derek leans in and so, so lightly, presses a kiss to each scar. It would have brought him to his knees had he been standing.

“I— They found him. Didn’t take long since he stole my car, and a month later he was in prison and me, well, I never slept too great after that. The force, they made me see a shrink for a few months, and I dunno. I guess it helped? I stopped having panic attacks in my kitchen, but that may have been because I moved. I wasn’t really all that stable for a while. I used to have pretty awful nightterrors and…well, I was a mess. So yeah. That’s the story. Not really a good one, I know.” 

“ _Stiles,_ ” Derek says, this weird look on his face, and he’s just shaking his head back and forth. “Stiles—“ His voice disappears against Stiles’ mouth. It starts as just a steady brushing of their lips, almost virginal for how clumsy it is, soft and gentle. Almost like a first kiss. The problem is that just about every kiss with him gives Stiles that first kiss feeling — potential and anxiety folded in on each other like lovers in a mirror. There’s a touch of suction, of urgency, almost like he’s trying to convey something, but that’s just Stiles reading too much into it. 

Derek pulls away and almost pets Stiles’ hair, like he’s fixing it or something.

“What’s his full name?”

Stiles leans back, eyeing him. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to kill him,” he says simply. That winds him. Fuck, he’s so _sincere_ about it. It’s not like it isn’t something Stiles himself has considered. Planned, even. Not especially in-depth, but sometimes, when he couldn’t sleep, he’d work on a few ideas. They helped him fall asleep a little easier. But that Derek was not only volunteering to do it, but _promising_? When he had no personal investment? Maybe they needed to reconsider the idea that Derek has potential psychopathic impulses.

( _Or not_ , a tiny voices says, _maybe it’s because it’s for you. Maybe it’s because he can’t bear the thought of allowing someone who’d hurt you to live. Because he cares about you._

He tells that voice to shut up before he starts to think it’s right.)

“Oh fuck,” Stiles says, something coming to him. “What _time_ is it?” He scrambles over Derek to grab his shirt while Derek pulls his keys out of the pocket and leans over to stick them in the ignition. 

“It’s just about a quarter to ten. Relax. You’re fine.” 

Stiles slouches, huffing a sigh. “You’re right. Still have a little bit of a window. Too bad I can’t shower. Jesus, I haven’t come in my pants since _college_. That’s kind of gross.” Derek leans up to _nuzzle_ against his cheek, forcing him to tilt back a little bit, curl a little bit against the dash. There’s not enough force for his stubble to scrape, but he feels it graze him.

“It was too risky for them to smell us on each other like that. I’m sorry. When this is over, we’ll do this right. We’ll do it slow and we’ll have all the time we need.” The last part is whispered against his ear, so low it sends a shiver through him. Fuck, he should not be turned on again already. Derek’s going to be the death of him, that much is certain. 

“I’ve gotta go. I’ll be back in a few, okay?” His hand finds the door handle as Derek finds his jaw with his mouth, lips catching against Stiles’ cheek. It’s weird that he’s almost starting to get used to the particular feel of Derek’s mouth on him, the precise heat of it, but then he’s getting distracted. The door opens with a little bit of effort. Derek wraps his arms around him in possessive hold, licking into his mouth wetly. The slick caress of his tongue is too much to resist at first, so he doesn’t try. Stiles just takes a second to learn his mouth a little better before he pulls away. 

“It’s not going to take long, but I’ve got to do this.” He gives him a soft, quick kiss before hopping off Derek’s lap and out of the car. And yeah, no, this is just as bad as he remembers. He feels sticky and gross and yeah, definitely stopping in the bathroom to clean himself off because this is _not_ okay. 

He gives the guy at the front a quick wave before heading back to the bathroom, does what he has to, checks himself in the mirror to make sure he doesn’t look like he just had sex in his car, and, satisfied, he walks back out to collect the pizza. It’s definitely still hot, so that’s a plus, and Jesus, does it smell good. That perfect sort of smell only boxed pizza has, from the grease soaking into the cardboard. Pizza is definitely one of his better decisions. Excellent post-sex food, too. But whatever. He’s going to pretend that he’s not ridiculously pleased with himself. It’s just endorphins anyway. When they wear off, he’ll have plenty of time to rail against himself for terrible decision-making. 

He sets the pizza down in the back seat, then hops around to the front. Derek is sprawled lazily across his seat, shirt still off and legs splayed in a way he’s sure is just for comfort, but he still looks like a wet dream. Add to that the fact that the car reeks of sex, and he’s not even vaguely angry-looking, just relaxed. A little dazed, Stiles stares at him for a moment, taking him in. All of him. 

God. He’s just fucked, isn’t he? 

…And this is where the self-loathing and voice of reason come in to ruin everything. 

“That was really stupid of us, wasn’t it? Fucking _reckless_. Derek, what if someone finds out? What if we’re not careful enough and someone saw us? Or someone realizes we smell just _a little bit too much_ like each other? We’re fucked. And not just us. The whole pack. Everyone we care about.” Derek sighs, finds his shirt and tugs it on, and straightens up his seat. His face settles into something a bit more closed-off. 

“Here’s what we’re going to do: when you get home, you’re going to shower at least twice before you see anyone. Then you’re going to go over to Scott and Allison’s and you’re going to spend some time with them. Play with the kids. Whatever. I’m going over there tonight. That’ll give us an excuse for our scents to have mixed. It’s all going to be fine. I promise. I’ll figure out how to tell Maggie that I can’t be with her. It’s all going to be fine.”

Stiles looks at him sideways, maybe getting his hopes up a little. “So you don’t want to be with her?”

“How could you even ask that?” It comes out so _final_ , like it was never even an option in the first place. That’s…not really how Stiles had understood it at all. 

“I mean, _you_ kissed _her_. You’re the one who started everything. I thought maybe you were just putting it off or something.”

A large, warm hand cups his cheek. “Stiles? Hey, look at me.” Stiles turns, body thrumming in confusion and hope and ridiculous fantasy. “I didn’t mean to do it. I was jealous because I thought you’d slept with Isaac. I acted impulsively. That’s all that was.” Stiles snorts as the pieces of the puzzle fall in place.

“He did it on purpose. Well, Erica did it first, but he was the one who really got all over me. He said I’d thank him later or something. I guess they were trying for this,” he says, gesturing between them. “For the record, the pack cares _way_ too much about your sex life.” Derek sort of grins, running his thumb over Stiles’ cheekbone. It’s a light, comforting touch, and he hates the way he leans into it instinctively. Because no matter how much he want it to be something different, this is still not love. He can’t let himself start to think it’s anything close. 

“When this is all over, we’ll have to thank them, then.” His look is almost soft, and when Stiles thinks about it, a plan starts to form. Because maybe Derek’s getting to be a little fond of him. He can work with fond. If he works at it, really works at it, he might be able to turn it into love over time. _That’s_ something worth hoping for. 

Stiles strokes the hand on his face tentatively, then pulls it away. “We’ve gotta go. I’m not letting this pizza get cold, and my dad’s going to wonder where I am. You’re distracting me.” 

“I happen to like distracting you.” There’s a little bit of a smirk to his tone, and it makes Stiles warm. 

“Why do I get the feeling I’m the only one of us who’s trying to stay out of trouble?” 

Derek sighs. “Because you worry too much. Now get going before I think you’re trying to tell me something by hanging out here.” Stiles makes a face, but he pulls out of the spot and heads off down the road. Almost immediately, Derek’s hand is on his thigh, and he just takes a moment to think about how it would be if this were real life. He and Derek heading to his dad’s house with pizza for a lazy family dinner, and they’d all watch Man Vs. Wild or Common Law re-runs together on the couch. And after, his dad wouldn’t bat an eye when Derek went up to his room instead of going home, and in the morning, they’d make breakfast together and everything would be disgustingly perfect and domestic. It’s a nice illusion, a pretty one, that makes his heart thud against his ribcage. He just needs Derek to _like_ him. To want that sort of thing with him. Then it could be so easy. 

 

Back at the house, Derek kisses him softly in the car, a goodbye kiss. But not a _goodbye-forever_ sort of kiss, just a _goodbye-for-now_. When he pulls away, he bumps his nose against Stiles’, smiling a little. 

“Later,” he says, getting out of the car. Stiles notices, with a little bit of amusement, the awkward hitch to his step. Yeah, that’s what happens when you get off with your clothes on. Not fun, is it? But he shakes off his amusement, hops out of the car, and grabs the pizza. 

At the door, he stops for a second to watch Derek drive away, smiling a little, but it’s something he has to shake off before he pulls out his keys and unlocks the door. Inside, his dad is sitting up, apparently woken by the sound of the door opening. He rubs his eyes a little, then looks at the clock on top of the TV.

“Took you long enough.”

“Yeah, well. It was weirdly busy. Come on. Let’s eat in the kitchen like civilized men.”

His dad groans, but he gets to his feet slowly, makes his way to the kitchen as Stiles gets out paper plates. 

It feels like being a teenager again, them eating takeout late at night, like his dad’s just come back from his shift. It’s not a perfect memory, not the suburban ideal, but it’s good, it’s right, it’s them, and that’s all that matters. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for references to possessive behavior and a description of an isolated instance of domestic violence
> 
>  
> 
> And the next chapter...soon. But don't be excited. Angst factor increases exponentially.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.

If he’s being honest about it, Stiles probably should have known better than to sleep. Sure, he’d showered beforehand, but some part of him should have been smart enough to stay up, just in case, just to be safe, but apparently he’s not paranoid enough. 

The crash from downstairs isn’t too loud, but it’s loud enough to wake him. Startled out of bed, he looks around for a weapon. Really, he should have been proactive and sent the papers through so he could have brought his gun with him down here, but he hadn’t expected trouble. So now he has no firearm, unless his dad has one somewhere, but then, his dad’s room is downstairs. He needs to get down there. 

Needs a weapon first.

The best he can find, however, is his old lacrosse stick. After he looks at it for a second, he breaks off the net, ending up with a fairly light, but solid weapon. Not really what he’d like, not if he’s up against what he thinks—

 _Creak_.

That’s the floorboard at the top of the stairs, he knows the sound well. Whoever it is is coming for him. Shit. Fuck. Well. 

He presses his body in tight against the wall next to the door. If there’s only one, he can get them when they come through the door. Muscles tight, he waits. Slow, quiet steps. Breath, heavy. The steps stop right at his door, and the handle’s turning, slowly, so slowly, like they’re trying not to wake him, and _wham_ —

He slams the stick down, hears the snap of a broken wrist, a growl, and then the door’s flying open. Stiles whacks it again, eyes taking in a half-shifted wolf, a beta, grunting in pain, but he doesn’t stop. Just rains blows down upon the creature, not slowing when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees a second and then a third, and _fuck_ , he’s slamming into the floor. A hot, clawed hand wraps around his throat, lifts him by it. The floor scrapes his toes as he scrabbles to touch, to support his own weight, and then the tops of his feet are being rubbed raw as he’s dragged from the room. The hand on his throat isn’t quite choking him, but it’s close. His fingers claw at it, digging into coarse fur, with absolutely no luck. 

If he could speak, he’d be yelling at them, screaming, but his throat’s too tight. Legs flail wildly, trying to kick something. It’s no use, he knows it, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t at least put up a good fight. 

And then he’s being _thrown_ , head-first, to his living room floor. Pain explodes above his ear as his head connects with a leg of the coffee table. Someone’s swearing loudly, and he’s pretty sure it’s him. There’s growling above him, but fuck these guys if they’re going to catch him acting afraid. Hands and knees, gasping against the pain in his head, then he pushes himself back onto his heels so he can look them in the eyes. 

And God. That’s an Alpha. And not Derek. Fuck. Just about fully shifted, too, eyes burning red and ugly. 

Stiles spits at it’s feet. “What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing in my house?” A harsh snarl, and then there are claws scraping against his scalp. For a second, he’s confused, thinks he’s going blind or something, but he realizes that there’s blood in his eye. It’s a little blurry when the Alpha shifts into a man and Maggie’s dad is standing there, claws still in his hair. 

“Consider the irony of _you_ asking about someone interfering where they don’t belong.” There’s a noise to Stiles’ left, human, and he glances over, seeing his dad on the couch with a beta’s paw around his throat. Jesus, they don’t even know how much they’re going to pay. Because even if it kills him, Stiles will _end_ them for bringing his dad into this. 

“Really? Because the way I see it, I was here first. You know, since it’s _my house_.” Dent wrenches his head back, pulling him up by his hair. _Fuck_ that hurts. 

“Do not play at innocence with me, _boy_ ,” he snarls. “You’ve been consorting with my daughter’s mate, and now he has a mind to go back on our arrangement. Somehow, I think he might be persuaded differently if it were you doing the persuading. So this is what is going to happen: you are going to leave town tonight. You will not come back. If he tries to contact you, you will remind him that his mate is _here_ , or I will kill your father while you watch. Is that in any way unclear?” Shit. He can’t do anything with that. He’s not going to put his dad in danger, and this bastard knows it. Fuck. He’s screwed. This isn’t—

A shot booms in the small room, then another and another and _Jesusfuck_ , it’s so loud it _hurts_. He falls to his knees as Dent lets go, a little disoriented by the noise, but he’s trained for this. Looking around, scoping out the situation, who fired and if anyone got hit. And fuck, there’s a gun in his father’s hand, and when he looks around, two of the betas are down. There’s a _roar_ above him as Dent shifts, part rage, part worry, and the black, hulking beast leans over his furthest son. Shit, he’s not moving. The one who’d been holding his dad is rolling on the floor, holding his shoulder. 

Stiles is on his feet in a second, rushing to his dad. “Get out of here. _Run_. _Go_. Don’t look back.” He yanks the gun from his father’s hands and pushes him up, to his feet, in the direction of the door. Luckily, his dad has the presence of mind to actually run, grab the keys from by the door, and bolt out of there while Stiles checks the barrel of the gun. Empty. Shit. This is not good. This is so very, very not good. If he had ammo, he could hold them off a little while, but he doesn’t have that advantage. He has to do something. 

The gun clatters to the floor, and the Alpha’s eyes snap to him. 

“This one is going to live,” he says, eerily calm as he gestures to the human form behind him, one of the twins. “If _he_ doesn’t, you have me. A son for a son. Leave my father out of this; he was protecting his own, no different from you.” The Alpha falls into the shape of a human, harsh vengeance written all over his face. “The ammo’s probably in my father’s room. If that helps. It’s probably Nordic Blue, if he got it from the Argents. No one has to die here.”

“My son is dead,” the body of a man spits through its teeth, “and you’re going to wish you were.” Dent is on him in a split second, throwing him back against the mantle. There’s a loud crash, and a cloud of ash rises up. Stiles chokes, praying silently that it’s not what he thinks that’s coating the inside of his mouth, as Dent grabs him by the throat and slams him chest-first against the floor. Oh, that crack is a rib, maybe a few, but Stiles tries to breathe, tries to crawl away as fiery pain shoots through his legs, starting at his heels. Probably his Achilles’ tendons so he can’t run. Fuck, this is not good. 

As claws sink into his back, make him cry out, then lift him, throw him against the coffee table so hard it snaps in half, Stiles starts to realize that he’s not going to make it out of here. He’s not going to survive this. He volunteered, after all. Life for a life, son for a son, and now he’s going to die. 

Dent flips him over onto his back. Stands over him with the claws and eyes of the Alpha. 

“I think I might rip off your arms before I claw your throat out,” he says, terrifyingly at peace. Fuck, yeah, Stiles is going to die. And it’s going to _hurt_. 

“Dad, wait— Maggie’s calling,” a voice says. Stiles isn’t really in a good position to move, so he doesn’t look, but he thinks it’s one of the twins. And he can do math, knows that means that it must be Cory who’s dead. Fuck. No. 

Dent steps over him, takes the phone. “No, sweetie, don’t worry about it. Just went out for a late-night snack.” His face darkens. “Is he with you now?— _Good_.— No, I’ll be home soon. Just have to take care of something. Then we need to talk. Alright? Goodbye.” He looks down at Stiles, face falling. “Do you realize that I’m going to have to come up with a plausible reason for why her brother is dead? I can’t exactly let something as worthless as you break her heart.” Stiles coughs, deep in a way that feels like it’s ripping him apart, a metallic taste finding its way into his mouth. Jesus, let that not be blood. Let him not have a punctured lung. 

“I don’t think I’ll kill you, now that I think about it. I think I’d rather know you died slowly, in _agony_. Yes, I think I like that idea very much.” He leans down, claws pressing against one side of Stiles’ belly, and _rips_ across. The scream forces its way out of his throat, consumes him, and everything dissolves into bright white pain. 

 

There’s a sound like something gurgling. A weird, wet, almost rhythmic gurgling, the sort of sound that makes bubbles. 

It takes a second for Stiles to realize that it’s coming from his own throat. That it’s the sound of him trying to breathe, that his mouth tastes bloody and sharp. But there’s no pain. No pain at all. Just numbness. 

This must be what shock feels like. Last time, he’d been unconscious for it. No, he’s definitely feeling it. The absence of everything. Can’t feel his body at all. Not sure if he even has one. But he can see, mostly. There’s black edges around his vision, but he can see the ceiling. It feels like it takes an hour to turn his head, it’s that heavy, that much effort, but when he does, he sees he’s alone. The living room is a wreck. There’s a fine dust covering most of the room, too, and he remembers with a dry sob the crash as his mom’s urn fell. He probably inhaled some of it, some of her. 

Christ, he’s going to die with his mom in his lungs. 

This is too much. Too much to handle. 

His brain is forgiving, though. It pushes him away from it all, gives him some distance. Yes, he’s going to die very soon. He’s going to bleed to death, or maybe the wound he distantly remembers, across his belly, will be what does it. With stomach wounds, it’s not usually blood loss that does it. Usually it’s septic shock. The body poisons itself. It’s slow. It can take hours, even, in the right circumstances.

Stiles is pretty sure he doesn’t have hours. 

No, he’s pretty sure the blood in his mouth means that there’s bleeding in his lungs. He’s going to drown on his own blood. Soon, too. There’s no way to account for how long he’d been out, but considering the noises he’s making, that throaty gurgle in the background, he’s got less than half an hour. 

He’s going to _die_. Won’t even get to tell his father that he’s _sorry_ , he’s just _so sorry_ that he’s done this, that he’d brought them here because he couldn’t say no. 

Maybe he’ll get to see his mother again. Fuck, he just wants her to be _proud_ of him, to take him into her arms, smelling sweetly of her perfume, warm and cottony, to tell him that he’d tried, that he’d done a good job with what he’d been given. 

 _That she loves him_ —

The door slams open and there’s yelling. He’s not even really sure what they’re saying, can’t look up to see who it is. Jesus, just let him die now, let him see her, it’s time to go, he can feel it. 

“ _Stiles!_ ” It’s Derek yelling. _Of course_ it’s Derek yelling. His subconscious is trying to keep him here, and it knows that the one thing that could possibly make him hold on to consciousness is Derek. Fucking _Derek_.

“Go ‘way,” he hisses, mouth falling open at the sharp pain in his chest. “I’m at peace, jus’ let me go.” Derek’s looking at him, face hollow, just taking in his broken body, the look on his face. His eyes are shiny. Why are his eyes shiny? It isn’t like he’s going to cry for _Stiles,_ of all people.

“You’re right, I’m not going to cry for you, you idiot. Because you’re going to be okay. You hear me? Stiles, _you’re going to be okay_.” There’s some sort of noise in the background, but Stiles is just trying to process his words.

“Wha—“ he chokes, coughs, hot tears slipping out at the pain as it comes to him “—what on Earth gave you that idea?” 

Scott’s face appears in his line of sight, and he watches as it sinks in the realization that _it’s too late_. 

“Shut up, Stiles.” His head swings around wildly. “ _Scott_?! Scott, tell me what you can do. Right now. Do something. Fix this.”

“Derek—“ Scott runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. His eyes are so _wide_ , but it’s getting hard to focus.

Something warm touches his cheek, a hand, maybe. “No. We’re going to save you. You’re going to be okay. Alright? I can fix you. I’m going to make you okay.”

“Don’t ma— Don’t make promises—“ _you can’t keep_ , Stiles finishes in his head, but he’s coughing again, and it’s starting to get hard to breathe, like he just needs to get to the surface. Oh God, this is what drowning slowly feels like. That’s what he’s doing. 

But Derek’s words hit him a second later, really _hit_ him. 

“ _No_ ,” he whines, trying to push Derek away. “No, you— you’re not going to do th— that. To me. I don’t want it.”

“It’s the only thing we can do,” comes Scott’s voice. Stiles tries to look at him, but he’s just a blur now. Fuck, it’s coming, he knows it’s coming—

“Stiles, I have to do this. I can’t let you die without trying everything first.” His voice is so soft, so sweet. Is he falling into heaven already? Do they have a Derek Hale there?

“Nonononono— Please, don’t do this. I— I don’t want it.” And he’s crying he’s really crying, he can feel it on his face. Tries to fight back as Derek leans in and puts his mouth on his shoulder, almost where it meets his neck. It’s half-memory, having something good, and he tries to hold onto that as the pain comes, sharp and then blurry, so blurry, as everything fades away. 

 

Burning; ugly bright churning wild— _Everything’s on fire_ —His body is alight, twisting, wrenching, bending backwards, curling in the flames; it’s so hot it’s cold, eating through his skin, millions and millions of tiny mouths ripping away at him, swarming, so many; no, he can’t breathe, choking, smoke thick and heavy in his lungs; something’s ripping him into pieces— _Fire_ —his mind tells him— _It’s all on fire_. The smoke, black and heavy, swallows him whole—

Clawing at the dirt, soil under his nails— _How did I get here_?—Something tells him it comes out in a yell, but there’s no response, just this feeling like his skin is being pushed off from the inside, like his bones want to push through; nails keep scrabbling at the ground, but when he looks down, they’re claws, dark and sharp; it isn’t right— _I don’t want to be alive_ —The howl sounds loud in his ears, but the moon doesn’t answer— _I’m alone_ —

 ** _Baby, you almost act like you know what you’re doing. You’re so brave. Yeah, just like that_** —Moonlight on bare skin, pale breasts and a waterfall of curls— ** _Let me show you how you make me feel. Let me have all of you_** —Tight wet heat and _fuck_ _this is good, this is so good, this is overwhelming, how can a person feel all of this at once?_ How is he supposed to hold it in, can’t hold—

Chest breaking in two, ashes rubbed into his skin; he wants to rip the world apart at the seams, tear the night in half like a sheet, leave it all exposed, like his heart, that horrible thing, beating wetly in his chest— _Why won’t it stop, why won’t it just go still?_ —Tries to pull it out; digs his claws into his chest, scrapes at the flesh, tearing it off to reveal blood-wetted bone, but it’s too thick to crack, so just scratches ( _like a prisoner trying to escape_ ) tries to dig past it as muscle begins to heal, fibers stretching and meeting— _It’s no use_ —He can’t get to it; his body is betraying him, keeping him alive— _Why won’t it just let me do what I need_ —

Cool hand on his face, touching so lightly, gently; there’s a burning over his spine, pain that spins outward beneath his skin; this is what he wants, what he needs, pain to ground him and a cool hand to tell him he’s alright—

 ** _You’re alright, I got you. Don’t you know, baby? You’ll always be mine. Forever_** —

So many voices, so _loud_ — _Home_ —It sounds like home, like family; everyone’s here, warm love soaking in the air; runs into the table, hit his head, and Mama kisses it better, smells like fresh bread and sunlight; sends him off, and he’s running, falling in with the others, rolling around on the floor with them; everything is so warm and so bright, cozy and perfect; this is what it should be, only something’s not right— _No, no,_ _what’s wrong with the house? Why is it crumbling_? _No no no, stop this, someone stop this, everyone’s on fire, please, no, don’t do this, leave them alone, they did nothing wrong, nothing_ —

The boy, he has freckles and his mouth won’t stop running, but he makes him want to rebuild, to put himself back together; the boy with the running mouth doesn’t know what he’s doing with his hands, but it’s something beautiful; the boy who doesn’t know what to do with his hands is building empires inside his chest where there was only rubble, and his mouth falls open when he’s not speaking like he’s drinking severything in; the boy is building cities of light, but the monster keeps knocking them down—

Sinking, down, down, down; light fracturing overhead; dark shape, legs, kicking, leaving him behind; last breath rising up like it’s trying to escape him— _I am not worthy of a death by fire. Even Peter, the betrayer, the walking scar, had been worthy, but I am not_ —chest compressing and all he can move is the very tips of his fingers, his toes, like it’s taunting him, how slow his body is coming back to him— _I must deserve this. This is what happens to the disappointing child, who could neither forgive nor avenge, but I’m coming, Mama, I’m coming, Father, the long-awaited return of the last son_ —something dark sinks nearby, and then there he is: the savior, the only one who would take pity, swimming towards him, beautiful and made of light; touches him, drags him into the world in the reflection of a birth; this boy is making him, putting the pieces in their proper places, and he doesn’t even know it—

 ** _That’s right. You’re such a good boy, aren’t you? Look at what you can do, look how far you’ve come_** —there’s a can in his hand, the thick scent of gasoline, clinging to the inside of his nose, as he pours pours pours; his mother screams and he just pours it down her throat, steps on the hand that reaches out to him; the match blooms like the prettiest flower— ** _See, wasn’t that easy? You’re the only one for this, I always knew it. Look at you, you look beautiful in ash_** — 

—( _after a while, the screaming stops_ )—

The boy gives him bricks and mortar; the boy gives him steel and concrete; the boy is giving him what he needs to build the phoenix that rises from the ashes but his hands don’t know how to make something that won’t crumble; the boy’s lips are trying to tell him how, but this time, they aren’t doing any talking—

 _I am not who I was meant to be. Laura was the Alpha, she was the one in line. This is a burden I was never meant to bear. How can I build something of love and trust and family if I don’t know what they are anymore? If I am a destroyer, if I am the fire that burns goodness to the ground, how can I create something that will stand? I was never made for this, I can’t be what they need_ —

The boy has faith in him; the boy has so much faith it spills from his mouth, his nose, his ears, so much that it wraps around him like a soft wind or a mother’s comforting hand; the boy has faith enough for two.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit just got real, bros.

The world is dry and cracked around the edges when Stiles finally makes it into consciousness. His body is tight and sore and…

There’s a baby crying. 

Whose baby is crying? 

What? 

A steady thud. Someone’s hitting the walls, slowly, steadily. Or someone’s having sex. But it’s muffled, like they wrapped their bedposts in something soft, only the rhythm’s wrong. It sounds familiar, but wrong, and no, there’s two. If he listens closely, two people are banging against the wall in a strange unison, almost like, almost like—

His eyes rip open, taking in the room, and then those sounds aren’t in sync anymore. One is keeping that steady, double tempo, but another, the louder, is picking up speed, _oh God_. It can’t be. No, no, it can’t. 

Stiles’ fingers fly to his throat, hunting for it, searching it out, and there— There it is. His pulse. Hammering away. He can hear his own heartbeat without feeling for it. And the other, there’s another. He’s not sure how, but he manages to swivel his head in the direction of the sound. There, slumped in his desk chair, Derek’s chin is resting against his chest as he sleeps. Fuck, he can hear his lungs stretch, and there’s something in the walls, and that baby won’t stop crying. 

“No, I can’t— I have to—“ Derek’s stirring, looks panicked, and his pulse picks up, but Stiles can’t do this, so he runs, faster than he ever thought possible. 

This—

This is too much. No, his brain can’t process all of this, the smells that hit him in waves, the sounds that keeps bouncing in from who-knows-where, the way he can see so clear even though he knows it’s dark, so dark, and he’s running, running, running, trying to keep it all in. Tries to focus on his pulse. _Lub-dup, lub-dup, lub-dup_. Quick, racing, in time with the thud of his feet against the ground, over and over and over. It doesn’t block everything out, barely even helps, but he listens. _Lub-dup, lub-dup, lub-dup_. _Thump thump thump thump thump thump_. He’s reaching for something, running towards something, but he has no idea what until he’s there. 

His feet hit damp earth, and the scent of it slams into him. It’s too much to contain. His body rebels, explodes from within, and there’s pain, raw and sharp, and he’s still running, still running, past trees, brush, leaves, deer, pond, trees, trees, trees, searching for it, for something, oh— There it is. 

He stops, looking up, taking it in. Pale semi-circle calling down to him with a siren song that makes his skin prickle. 

 _No._  

He scrapes at the earth, an inhuman sound tearing from his throat when he sees claws set in dark paws, digs and digs and digs, trying to find himself, trying to dig himself out. This skin doesn’t belong to him, this body is not his own, no, he needs to wake up. Has to escape this hell. Everything keeps falling in on him. The whole world is pressing in on him, and he’s going to be crushed by it—

A warm pressure on his back. He snaps at it, terrified, crying in his head.

“Stiles, it’s alright. Calm down. You’re okay,” the voice says, and then he’s crying on the ground, in shock, like a newborn, screams and howls bursting from his lips. Can’t stop himself. His body won’t respond, he just writhes and sobs while his body tries to reconcile itself with his mind. “Shh, it’s okay. Breathe. Just breathe. Can you do that for me?” So he tries. He drags in a lungful, lets it shudder out. And then another, in, out. Over and over until the rhythm of it can squeeze a little more of him back in his own head.  

He rolls over onto his back, staring up at the tops of trees, the sky, and Derek’s face, concerned and intent. 

“Why?” he whispers. “Why would you do this to me?” Damp leaves and sticks poke into his back, but it’s almost grounding, like a connection to something solid. He needs it. Because even as Derek sits back on his haunches, it starts to really sink in that he’s going to be like this forever, that this is going to be his life from now on. Chaos and too much. It makes him feel guilty, almost, for how he treated Scott at the beginning, all those years ago, if this is what he’d been going through. 

“I had no idea that this would happen. I thought we might be able to ease you into it. This shouldn’t have happened.” Stiles sits up abruptly, grabbing at his shoulders.

“Damn right it shouldn’t have happened. I told you not to. I didn’t want this.” And suddenly he’s pushing Derek down, clawing at him, snarling, feral. “ _Fight me_. Don’t just lay there; _fight_.” He’s flying now, soaring backwards until his back collides with the rough bark of a tree. Gets to his feet, arching into himself, skin pricking. Derek’s half-shifted, eyes red and face contorted.

“I’ll do this for you, just this once, but don’t ever ask me to fight you again. I won’t do it.” The words barely register as Stiles launches himself at him, claws first. Gets pushed to the side, carried by his own momentum, skids on the unforgiving ground. 

Then he’s up again, going in on one side, but redirecting at the last second, knocking Derek onto his back. _Howls_. A howl in answer, and they’re rolling, twisting each other down, into the ground, claws tearing at anything they can get a purchase on, biting. Some sort of primal fight for dominance that neither of them is winning. 

But Stiles gets the upperhand, gets the right sort of leverage, manages to pin Derek’s wrists to the ground. Snarls at him when he struggles. Something catches him, though, tugs at the wild thing at the center of him. Scent. Because Derek smells _good_ , and that’s the worst sort of understatement. Stiles can’t help but duck his head down to sniff at his throat. Lick at him, trying to taste him because _fuck_ , there’s no way a person can smell like this, like _everything_ , like stability and home and want and soft grass and open air and _night_. Yeah, he needs more of this, needs to get closer, get more of him, get inside his skin. His whole body is swimming with it, cloaked in heat and need. 

Somewhere, in the haze of it, their mouths meet in a biting sort of kiss, raw and deep. It’s not an act of love or even lust; this is an act of claiming. This is Stiles taking what is his, devouring, crawling inside and marking his territory. This is what is his, what will always be his, his _right_. 

It’s the pain that makes him realize what he’s doing. That he’s rutting against Derek mindlessly, hips stuttering and dragging over jeans, which isn’t exactly pleasant, and worse, it’s _wrong_. There should be _nothing_ between them. With a snarl, he releases Derek’s wrists and tries to rip them off. There are three hands trying to get his pants off, and none of them are having any luck. Not his fault because he keeps getting distracted, can _smell_ the arousal in the air, how it rolls off of him in waves, can feel him, hard and straining beneath rough denim. Can’t help but slide down his body and run his teeth over the bulge, try to scent him as Derek arches against his face. 

But now he’s close enough to see what he’s doing, able to come back to himself enough to remember how to unbutton and unzip him. Derek lets out something like a low whine when Stiles yanks his jeans and underwear down to his thighs. His cock springs up to rest against his stomach, leaking and throbbing with a pulse Stiles can actually hear. He _wants_. Can’t help but drag his mouth against him, taste him, watch the way his belly quivers because he’s still trying to be in control. Stiles growls at that, drags red lines down his sides to see him snarl back, hiss. Wants to swallow the sound, so he does, takes his mouth and owns it. Runs his hands over Derek’s body because this is _his_ , this will aways belong to him, and he needs it, needs him, needs him to make his own claim. 

Words are too much, but he wraps a hand around Derek and positions him where he wants him, whining when he makes abortive little thrusts against him. Derek drags himself from the kiss and pushes fingers into his mouth instead, other hand grabbing his flanks, pulling him down in a rough approximation of a rhythm. He wants more, wants it _now_ , so Stiles bites at the fingers in his mouth, hard enough to get his message across. His tongue tries to scrape all the scent off Derek’s throat as two fingers press into him, quick and insistent and not nearly enough. He growls, reaching back to grab Derek’s hand and force him in deeper. The third finger he gets is closer to what he needs, but it’s not enough, not quite, he just _needs_. Needs everything Derek can give him, all of him, completely. 

The fingers withdraw just before he pulls them out himself, and he’s spitting into Derek’s hand, trying to hold himself back. The blunt, wet head slicks against him, like he’s foolishly asking permission, so Stiles just presses back, takes him in with a low whine. 

Then they’re both competing to control the pace, Stiles bearing down while Derek grabs him by the hips and tries to thrust upwards. It’s clumsy and raw, and their teeth knock together as they pant in each others’ mouths. Trying to get more, faster, harder, deeper, but the position isn’t letting that happen. He’s too caught up to consider adjusting, too worked up in the slap and grind of their bodies, but Derek apparently isn’t, because he pushes him off before he realizes what’s happening, presses his chest down against the ground and pulls him to his knees, sinks in again and _there_. 

Stiles howls, scrabbling at the ground for purchase against the jarring thrusts that are hitting him right where they need to. Hot breath against his neck, sharp prick of claws on his hips, it’s all too good, too visceral and wild. Fuck, it’s splitting him open, ripping him into shards, how— no, this is too much, this is everything, this is what he needs and yeah, fuck, more, harder, _please_ — 

The sound is animal and strange, makes the stars shiver and the moon quake, and it’s tearing from his throat and fuck, he’s there, they’re something new here, this creature of fused bodies and primal need, and the sound he’s making is joined by another as the world falls apart.

 

It’s a few minutes later that he realizes that there are sticks poking into his ribs painfully and his right side is more or less being crushed. By Derek. 

Oh, and they’re currently naked in the woods. 

Well, upon shifting around a bit, he sees that Derek is actually only _mostly_ naked, since his jeans are around his calves, and Jesus, they just had sex in the middle of the woods, didn’t they? That’s…not something Stiles would ever expect to do. 

Plus side, apparently having a really fucking amazing orgasm is enough to shut down and restart his brain, a sort of neural reboot. His senses are still insane, sure (their pulses, thrumming; the scents of sweat and sex and earth and their own individual smells, still singing), but he feels a bit more in-control now. Less like he’s being overwhelmed by everything. It’s…not bad. Not good, he’s not ready to think of this as a good thing yet, but it’s not bad. 

Derek’s staring at him.

Just sort of watching him, taking him in or something. He’s more on his side now, since Stiles pulled himself from underneath him. For a moment, they just look at each other, and Stiles can’t help but smirk a little.

“So. Werewolf sex. How about it, eh? Pretty much obliterates my current ‘Best Sex’ ranking. Like, whoa.” Derek smiles in a way that means he doesn’t want to, rolling his eyes. “No, but really, I may or may not end up with leaves glued to me after this because I’m _definitely_ in the wet spot, but I don’t even care. We should be doing this all the time. Only maybe less with the outdoors?” But as his mouth runs on, he starts to actually remember everything. It all starts to settle in. “How long was I out? Before, I mean.” 

Derek’s mouth presses into a pale line for a moment, then he says, “Four days. You were…violent. We had to restrain you for the first couple of days.” None of it is really _clear_ , but he sort of remembers. Remembers smoke and ash and grief and rage. 

“I— I had nightmares. I think they were yours.” 

“I’m sorry.” It’s so soft, so fragile, like it might break in the air between them. “I didn’t think it would be like this. I had no idea. But I’m not sorry I did it. You don’t have to like me for it, but you’re alive because of it. I won’t ever regret it.” Stiles isn’t really in a place where he’s ready to thank him for that, but he blinks slowly and gives something that could be mistaken for a nod. A breeze stirs, chill and all-encompassing, making Stiles shove in closer, kick at Derek’s jeans so they can tangle together. Derek takes the opportunity to wrap his arm around him a little tighter and press a kiss to the bow of his lips. 

“Why did I dream as you?” he whispers. 

Derek rubs a rough cheek against the side of his head, nuzzling. “It happens sometimes. If the connection is right or if there’s emotional trauma. It happened with Lydia, with Jackson. Not to this extent, of course. You were— I don’t like to think about how close you came to… but I think that had something to do with it.” 

“It wasn’t your fault, you know. Not the bite, no, that’s all you, but the fire? That wasn’t your fault.” Derek looks at him with wide eyes for a moment, then looks away. Closes off. 

“I have to tell you something. I need you to promise me you’ll stay calm. Can you do that?” Bad sign. Bad, bad, bad sign.

“I don’t know. How can I know that if I don’t know what you’re about to tell me?”

Derek stares at him closely. “I don’t know exactly what happened at your house that night, but your dad got away. He drove to Scott and Allison’s, just to let them know, and then he went to Lydia’s. At least that’s what we think happened—“

“Why can’t you just ask him?” Something cold is sliding through his body, a bad feeling, something between fear and death.

“Stiles,” he says gently, rubbing his cheek, “they took them both. We’re not quite sure where, but I think they took them up north.” Fuck. _Fuck_. This is— No, this isn’t okay. Jesus, he fucked up so bad. If they’re hurt—

“Do we know if they’re alive?” He’s trying to breathe calmly, trying to keep himself in check. It’s not working. Not really. 

Derek strokes his hair gently, more petting his head than anything else. “They haven’t sent us any sort of message yet, but we think they’re probably still alive.”

“We’ve got to go find them. Derek, what are we _doing_ here? We should be going after them.”  

“We will. My car’s all ready. Just waiting for you to settle in a little. Let’s get back to civilization. We’ll get you something to eat, then we can go. Alright? Good plan?” 

Stiles sits up, brushing a few leaves from his hair. “Yeah, good plan.” He stills. “Wait, where are my pants?” Derek gets this sort-of smile, like something is terribly funny but he’s too emotionally constipated to laugh. 

“You, well, you were in boxers when we put you to bed. But then when you shifted…well, let’s just say they didn’t survive the transformation.” 

“How did they not? I mean, I didn’t hulk out or anything— and hey, the Hulk always keeps his pants!”

Derek cocks his head. “How much do you remember of when you shifted?”

Stiles thinks about it, really thinks about it. About running through the woods wildly, charging through the trees—

“Oh. I—“ His brain is spinning, trying not to believe what logic is telling him. “— _I went full wolf_. But I thought that only— Shit, there’s _no wa_ y I’m an _Alpha_. _How….?_ ”

Derek gets to his feet, then pulls Stiles up. “Alphas tend to form pairs. Pack instinct. But it doesn’t usually happen like this. My parents were from different packs when they first met. She was an Alpha, he wasn’t, but when they came together, he became one and they started a pack of their own. That’s usually how it works. I don’t think there’s history of someone going straight from human to Alpha, or at least not that I’ve ever heard of. I think that might be part of the reason why it was so difficult for you, at first.” Derek pulls his jeans on, wincing at the slashes around the hips. He shrugs, like it’s no big deal really, that Stiles is a fucking _Alpha_ , apparently. Right. Even though the werewolf gods kind of shit all over Jackson at first, he’s apparently cool enough to be the weirdly fortunate one. 

“So exactly how awesome does this make me?”

Derek _grins_ , pulls him in by his hips, and presses a quick kiss to his mouth. “ _Very_. Now come on. Let’s see how fast you can run.” He throws a wink, and then he’s off, zipping through the trees.

“ _Cheater_ ,” Stiles hisses under his breath, unable to keep a smile off his face. And then he’s running, too. Chasing Derek really by scent. Derek smells so particular, it’s like there’s the olfactory equivalent of a glowing path in his wake. Part of him idly wonders how far he could sniff him out, if there’s a limit to the distance. Not that he really wants to try it out.

Except he’s going to have to, isn’t he? His whole life is in Minneapolis. Hundreds and hundreds of miles away. He’s going to have to go back, even if he wants to stay. Well, part of him thinks he _should_ stay, what with being the pack’s second Alpha and all, but he’s not sure he can handle being a permanent friend-with-benefits. It’s not really fair, honestly. But then, if his dad and Lydia are okay, he’ll do whatever they want him to do. He owes that to them. It’s all his fault. He’d been so _stupid_ , just falling over himself for Derek despite the fact that he _knew_ , he fucking knew there would be consequences. 

“What’s wrong?” Derek asks as soon as he lopes up to the porch. 

Stiles shrugs. “Nothing. I just keep thinking about how my dad and Lydia would be perfectly fine if I just didn’t come back. Everyone would be totally fine—“ 

“No. I wouldn’t be. And when we get them back, they’ll understand.” Stiles half-smiles at him, seeing him in a new light. _Derek wouldn’t be okay if he hadn’t come back_. That means Derek at least enjoys being around him. Maybe he has a shot after all. 

“Well, we’re a regular Romeo and Juliet then, aren’t we? Minus all of the death. Most of it.” He thinks back to Cory, a sick pain twisting in his gut. 

“Don’t think like that. Come on. Let’s get you something to wear. I can’t really take you anywhere like this. Too much of a temptation.” Fuck, that’s _flirting_. Derek is openly _flirting_ with him. What? Maybe the weird werewolf gods _do_ love him after all. Like, when he was out, dreaming and all of that, maybe Derek watched over him, and like Florence Nightingale syndrome or whatever, he started to really like him. It’s not entirely real, sure, but that could be a start, at least. 

 

As it turns out, Derek’s clothes, which are the only ones he’ll let Stiles wear even though Isaac’s are probably a better fit, are a bit loose. What look like nice, decently-tight pants on Derek’s rather nice thighs look a little baggy on Stiles, and even if he does have some muscle, thank you very much, because he actually _is_ in shape, but his shirts don’t stretch tight the way they do on Derek. Thankfully, he’s spared the embarrassment of trying on one of his Henleys, because Stiles would rather not ruin the perfect image of Derek’s pecs and shoulders and biceps in one of those shirts by seeing it on himself. Not that he’s scrawny or anything, not at all, because he actually does work out, what with the job, he’s just not built like one of the Greek pantheon. 

“You know, maybe we should have showered before getting dressed?” Stiles says, watching Derek pull a shirt over his head. 

“No, this is good. Trust me.”

Stiles frowns. “I’m pretty sure I have leaves in places where there are _not_ meant to be leaves. _How_ is this good, exactly?”

The way Derek licks his lips and smirks is _sinful_. “Because if we got in that shower, I would have had to fuck you in it. And then on my bed. And we wouldn’t have made it out of here for another few hours, and that’s being maybe exceedingly generous in regards to my self-control. And while I think you might go for it, you’d be pissed off and angry at yourself later for having sex when you should be getting your father and Lydia back. So yes, this way is good.” Stiles tries to close his mouth, he really does, but he has this problem where his mouth hangs open when he’s turned on, and Derek talking about them having sex is really not good for that. Not when he should be focusing.

“Right. You’re right. Good. Food? I could do with some food. When was the last time I ate?”

“ _Before_.” Derek’s face grows a little dark. 

“Great. Then let’s get food.” 

Derek nods. “I called Scott when I first got here. My car is at your house. He’ll bring it, and we’ll go eat. There’s probably a diner in town that’s open. Or something.” 

“Jeez. What time is it anyway?”

“Early. Very. But by the time we get where we need to be, there should be daylight.”

Stiles nods, sitting down on Derek’s bed that smells like him, oh God does it. “So, um. What should we do while we wait?” He tries to make it sound casual, but it’s clear by the way Derek raises an eyebrow that he wasn’t even close. 

“We’re going downstairs and you’re going to drink some water, hydrate a bit because you’ve been sweating in a fever for a few days, and then we’re going to wait. Preferably at opposite ends of the couch because I’m pretty sure that Scott doesn’t want to walk in on anything, and after being on the opposite side of that, I think we should be polite about it.” Stiles nearly rolls his eyes but he doesn’t because _water_. Water sounds so good at the moment. Like, crazy-good. Oh yeah. 

 

In the end, when Scott walks in, they’re technically still clothed, but there might be some inappropriate touching. Just a little.

“Should I come back? Because I can come back, it’s just I was under the impression that you wanted to go get food? Or was I wrong?” Derek draws away so Stiles can sit up, run his fingers through his hair.

“No, let’s go with the food. Food is great. All for food here. What has two thumbs and wants to eat something—“ he stops, realizing he’s kind of stressing the point a little “—Never mind. But the answer to that question was _me_ , by the way. Just to clear that up.” Derek hides a smile and cuffs him on the back of the head with something like affection. 

“Then prove it. Get a move on.” He hauls Stiles to his feet and pushes him a little in the direction of the door. It’s clear, however, from the warmth at his back and the thickness of his scent in the air, that Derek’s close behind.

Scott holds out the keys with a mildly amused expression. “You two really are kind of gross, you know that? But I’m glad you’re gross. I mean, you’re okay, so that’s all good, you know?” He looks a little like a sad puppy, so Stiles hugs him out of pity. Maybe a little bit because he kind of fucking misses Scott, misses his dopey face and weird appreciation for anything at all cheesy or sappy. 

“Love you too, bro. But I wasn’t kidding about the food. I am _so_ hungry, you would not _believe_.” That’s enough to send them all off to the car.

When they’re all in, Stiles sitting shotgun because being second Alpha has certain privileges, or so he’s going to choose to believe, he turns around, feeling puckish.

“So how was your first day of school, sweetie? No one steal your lunch money?” Scott snorts, rolling his eyes, and Derek gives him a look. “Don’t laugh at me. I’d make an awesome parent, I’ll have you know.” 

Derek’s hand settles on his thigh and squeezes lightly. “I _do_ know that.” Oh fuck. What’s he supposed to say to that? _Hey, that’s great, let’s adopt a bunch of werebabies and live together forever and ever_? Jesus. How’s he supposed to interpret that anyway?

“Hey, do you think on the way there, you could stop at the dentist? Because by the time we get into town, I’m going have too many cavities to count.” See, way back when, Stiles had _known_ that teaching Scott sarcasm would be a terrible idea. But he’d done it anyway, and now here he is. _Mildly_ competent at humor. It just isn’t right. 

“Wow. You’re hilarious. Isn’t he hilarious?” Derek shakes his head a little, but his eyes are crinkled at the corners by just the tiniest bit. 

“He’s just overly excited about not having to call you ‘Pack Mom’ behind your back.” 

Stiles makes a face. “Pack Mom? How did you even—“

“You’ve been ‘Pack Mom’ since your junior year. They almost got you an apron, but my understanding is that Jackson refused to pitch in, and they’d kind of planned on him doing _all_ of the pitching in,” Derek says, glancing back at Scott for confirmation.

“Yep. Crying shame.” Scott shrugs, leaning back into his seat. “Not that anyone thought it was really a _thing_ or anything. I mean, no one would’ve been _upset_ , but I for one would’ve been surprised.” Yeah, Scott was surprised when Danny lowered his standards enough to hook up with Jackson that one time, and while Lydia and Stiles may have had bets in place that he’d hold out longer, everyone but Scott knew that it would happen eventually. And that time Stiles took him clubbing and he had no idea it was a gay bar until, like, half an hour into the night. And it was the _second time_ they’d been there. The _second_ time. So he can safely say that Scott’s surprise is unsurprising, but Stiles still thinks that Scott wouldn’t have been the only one to not see it coming. Hell, Stiles never saw anything happening, and he _still_ doesn’t, not really. They’ll have some great sex while he’s in town, and then Stiles will go back to his own life and try to figure shit out and Derek won’t be any different. He’s just being realistic here. Not going to get his hopes up. Maybe he’ll be pleasantly surprised, even, but he’s not going to make any assumptions that this is going to last at all. 

“I don’t know if I should feel offended at the female connotations or just be pissed off that I didn’t get an apron out of the deal. Or hungry. Because I’m really, really hungry right now. I don’t think I’ve been this hungry in my entire life, and that’s saying something.” 

“We’re almost there. Shouldn’t be more than a couple of minutes.”

 _There_ turns out to be fast food because it’s all that’s open. 

Not that Stiles is complaining. He’s used to late-night fast food runs. This is normal for him. 

And the best part about not having eaten in a week is he can order three burgers and large fries and not feel a single bit guilty about it.

They end up at the far end of the parking lot, shoveling food into their mouths. Stiles is pretty sure they gave him two burgers and an empty wrapper because he has absolutely no memory of the first one. But the second and third taste fucking amazing, so there’s that. And his stomach is just singing him praises, even though it won’t be in an hour, but he’s at the point where any food is mana from the heavens. 

It’s as he’s eating his fries that it all really hits him like a wall to the face.

His dad and Lydia are in _danger_. They might be _dead_ for all anyone knows. They got taken because he fucked up, and maybe someone killed them for it, and that’s all on _him_. If they’re dead, their blood is on his hands. 

The fries go back into the bag as his food tries to come up. 

Well, more than _tries_. He makes it out of the car before he heaves, his body tearing everything out of him. He might be crying a little bit, too, but he’s going to pretend he’s not. Only he shouldn’t get to have that dignity, not really, not when he isn’t even sure that some of the people he loves most are _alive_ , let alone _unharmed_. Disgusted with himself, he retches again. He never even _asked_ about his dad. Like he didn’t care; he was too busy fucking Derek in the middle of the fucking woods to even _think_ about him. And Lydia? She’d specifically told him not to fuck anything up, and what does he do? He fucks everything up, and now she’s paying for it. Fuck, it’s all his fault.

A hand is rubbing his back and whispering nice things to him, but he doesn’t deserve it. He deserves to die, like he promised. _A son for a son_. That’s where all of this went wrong. If he’d only just _died_ , then everything would be fine. Then maybe everyone could be okay. 

He gets hauled up by the shoulders, meeting an angry snarl. “ _Look at me_. Listen to me very carefully: Don’t ever talk like that again. _Ever_. Do you hear me? If you had died, I would have ripped them limb from limb. _All_ of them. They would’ve had to put me down like an _animal_ because I wouldn’t _ever_ stop. Do you understand? Dying isn’t on the menu; you don’t get to have that option. Ever.” If his mouth didn’t taste like vomit, Stiles would’ve kissed him, so he just wraps his arms around Derek, pulling him in tight. Jesus, he’s fucked if he starts believing stuff like this, but he can’t help it. Derek just sounds so _sincere_. He makes Stiles want to tell him the truth, how he feels, but he can’t just lay that on him. It wouldn’t be right. 

“I have to get them back,” Stiles says. Derek’s hand rubbing his back stills and they break away to look at each other. Derek’s face is determined and unwavering, everything Stiles feels, and fuck, if he isn’t just _everything_.

“Let’s go, then.”

Stiles frowns, looking at him carefully. “If my dad and Lydia aren’t okay, I’m going to kill them. I’m going to murder them, and I won’t let you stop me.”

“I won’t try to stop you.”


	9. Chapter 9

Scott tries to come with them. 

This works for exactly as long as it takes for them to get to his house and push him out of the car. 

“You have a family. You don’t get to make potentially life-threatening decisions,” Stiles says, shrugging. 

Derek nods. “Go inside. Kiss your daughters goodnight, lay down next to your wife for a while, then you can come back and tell us you want to leave all of that behind. This pack is bigger than us and stronger than us, and I’m not going to let you break the one whole family we have. So go to bed, Scott. Maybe we’ll see you tomorrow.” 

They’re back in the car before he can protest. As they drive away, he kicks the ground angrily and turns to go inside. 

 

“This will be quick. I don’t think he sleeps,” Derek says when they pull up at the Argents’ house. 

“What are we here for?”

The look he gets is answer enough.

“Right. Weapons. You don’t go into a werewolf fight without your silver bullets. Metaphorically.”

Sure enough, it doesn’t take more than a minute for Chris Argent to answer the door. He looks somewhat innocuous in pajamas, but Stiles has seen enough of him to know that he’s deadly. Even if he _is_ on their side now, and moving towards sixty.

“You’re conscious,” he says as a greeting. “Fantastic. Now why are you at my door at three in the morning?”

“We need guns. Ammo. We’re going after them.” At this, Chris steps aside, swinging the door in. He doesn’t say anything, but he gives them a pointed look when they both hesitate on the step. Silently, they follow him upstairs to the master bedroom. Only not. Stiles had only ever been in it once anyways, but he’s pretty sure it had a bed back then. And fewer gun racks. Well. That says a lot.

“Grab what you need,” he says, gesturing to the rack of semi-automatics as he steps up to an array of crossbows. “Rounds are over here.” 

Stiles nods, impressed. The station back home doesn’t even have some of these models. 

“I went with your idea,” Chris says, filling his crossbow chamber. “That stupid one from that crappy movie. A few months after you left, there were a couple attacks by a feral omega so I tinkered around a little. It’s all liquid-filled rounds now. The powder in the bullets has a catalyst to liquify the wolfsbane in the heat, the crossbow bolts have liquid chambers near the tips, and the arrows each have three capsules. Reusable, and once it hits the bloodstream, it goes straight to the heart. Half an hour, on the outside. Doesn’t sit around in the veins so you can pop it out or amputate before it hits.” At first, Stiles just sort of grins and nods, his teenage-self fucking _rejoicing_ at the big scary hunter man using _his_ idea from _his_ favorite werewolf/vampire movie, but then it starts to sink in. 

“They’re all lethal, then. You get hit, you’re out.”

“That’s kind of the point. We’ve got a few other options if you just wanna slow them down, but this is easier. It isn’t like I’d use them against anyone here.”

“No, but you gave my dad a gun with these rounds, didn’t you? For protection?”

Chris shrugs. “It was the right thing to do. One human father to another.” Stiles nods absently, mind working. This explains everything. Why Dent would hunt down his father. That his other son who’d been shot non-fatally had died. He went after him to settle the score, which means that he probably still thinks that Stiles is dead. That might give him an advantage. 

“Dent must have smelled Lydia at my house, that’s why he went for her. He assumed she’d give my father sanctuary, and then he couldn’t just take one of them. But he blames my father for two deaths, not one, that’s why he took him at all. When his other son died, he wanted retribution. _Fuck_. This makes perfect sense.” 

Derek stills, hand on a box of modified shotgun shells. “We can’t be sure he thinks you’re dead, even still. He could have taken Lydia because of that, too. We can’t be sure.”

“We’ll just have to find out,” Chris says, fitting the bolt chamber into his crossbow with a click. “By the way, I hope you both understand we’re taking my SUV. I _highly_ doubt your pretty little car has the sort of fortification we need if we’re taking on a pack of around forty.”

“ _‘We_ ’?” Stiles raises an eyebrow.

“What, you think I’m just arming you? I’m sorry, who, exactly, has a lifetime of hunting experience here? That’s right. And Lydia’s like a daughter to me. I’m going to save her, and if it’s too late for that, well, you can be _damn_ sure that I’ll avenge her.” 

“ _Thank_ _you_ _,_ Tony Stark,” Stiles mumbles, grinning. “Boy am I glad we knocked on your door this morning.” 

“Morning is a little generous, don’t you think? Now come on. There’s duffle bags in that cabinet; the faster we can get out of here, the better.” 

Stiles and Derek hurry, loading everything up into the bags for easy transport, glancing at each other every few seconds. Maybe it’s premature adrenaline, but Stiles isn’t sure he’s ever felt quite so alive. Definitely not at this hour. And besides that, they’re not just going into this empty-handed, or armed only with their teeth; Chris Argent is a scary motherfucker, exactly the kind you want fighting on your side. 

“By the way,” Chris says as they head to the garage, “I’m, you know, glad you’re alive and all of that. Even if it seems like everyone around here’s some sort of wolf.” 

“Yeah, well,” Stiles mutters, shrugging a little. 

Derek slips past him, setting a couple of duffle bags down the back seat as he says, “Not just some sort of wolf. _Alpha_.” He’s fucking _proud_. Stiles can smell it on him, but he can tell by his posture all the same. Derek thinks it’s _awesome_ he’s an Alpha. Stiles isn’t sure if he should be offended or touched.

Chris seems to get it a bit faster than Stiles had. “Oh. So the rumors were true, then. Here, some of us believed Dent was just crazy. But you’re the crazy ones, then. Provoking an Alpha. And I thought Scott and Allison had a Romeo and Juliet complex. I don’t know whether to be supportive or slap you both upside your stupid heads. You’re both fucking crazy either way.”

Derek snarls low, in the back of his throat, but Stiles touches his arm and he relaxes. It’s not like Chris is trying to be an asshole or anything; he’s just being honest. It’s not like either of them had really been acting sane in the first place. They’d been stupid and they’d made mistakes, and there was no use pretending they didn’t. They fucked up. Hard.

 

They don’t make small talk on the long drive. 

Stiles is the only one who’s ever bothered with it in the first place, but it’s something he’s been trying to train himself out of. Maybe it’s cool for a cop to be a talkative mess with snappy comebacks on television, but it’s pretty much entirely unprofessional in real life, so he’s been working on it. He doesn’t particularly want to talk right now anyway. There isn’t really anything to say. Not when they’re looking at the possibility of not only finding cold bodies, but dying themselves. It’s a hell of a lot to deal with. No, it’s nowhere near the first time he’s been in a situation like this, where he’s not sure about a good outcome, but it doesn’t ever get _old_. He never gets _used_ to it. That isn’t how it works. The possibility of death isn’t really something he can just adapt to, stop worrying about it, not since he only gets to live and die once, so no, not something he can just brush off.

The fucked up thing is that he can literally _feel_ Derek’s worry too, senses anxiety and concern and fear, and it’s really just this giant fucking mess. No, he’s not going to freak out, but he _wants_ to. Wants to jump out of the car and feel earth beneath his feet and the weight of the sky, and Jesus, this just isn’t _normal_. It’s all just so fucking weird to think about. That he’s a _werewolf_ now. That he has claws and fangs and apparently shifts into a wolf and has to worry about _full moons_. 

This was never supposed to be _him_. He was always the one to watch, to make sure everyone was okay, to worry about them, he was supposed to be the one to make sure everyone came back okay and be the one who gets left behind, and this just isn’t worth it. He can’t protect anyone if he’s not even in control of _himself_. Getting to keep up isn’t worth the price of not being able to _do_ anything because he’s too busy trying to figure out how his skin is attached to his body, how he can be contained within himself. That’s just too fucking much. 

And yeah, if they live through this, he’s not going to be able to keep living in Minneapolis. Not for a long time. Not until he learns control, and he has no fucking clue how long that’ll take. It could take _months_ , like with Scott, and he doesn’t have months. Not if he wants to have a job when he gets back. No, he’ll have to stay here, have to relocate for a while, until he can get himself under control, have to be stuck in this damn place knowing that even on the off chance that Derek can manage to fall in love with him even though he _shouldn’t_ because that’s not how they _work_ , that’s not their thing, and it just sounds horrible. Like this past week, but stretched out, amplified, more horrible, and he just can’t handle that. 

“Hey.” Derek’s hand is touching his knee, and he’s turned around in the front seat, looking at him with concern. “Move over.” Stiles slides up against the window as Derek somehow manages to climb into the back without forcing the car off the road. The glass is cool against the side of his face, and Derek’s hands are warm as they gently pry him away from the door, pull him closer. Stiles feels like some sort of zombie, disconnected, the center of his brain buzzing with panic that shuts everything else off. 

But Derek feels _good_. He feels like reassurance. Like confidence. Even though Stiles _knows_ he’s not confident they’ll all get back alive, it seems like he’s confident in _something_. He doesn’t even say anything, but just being in contact with him, the heavy heat of him pressed against Stiles’ side, it puts his mind at ease. That in itself is almost worrying, but Stiles is going to take it while he can get it. A last good cuddle before what might be the end. Nothing wrong with that. Definitely feels right, at least. Derek’s hand rubbing his back, it’s nice. It’s all so nice, and yeah, he’s going to make a stupid decision here. He’s going to pretend that Derek loves him. He needs it right now. He’s going to pretend that all of this is because Derek needs him and wants him, has always wanted him, wanted to get old with him and build a pack with him. That’s going to be his truth until he knows for sure that all five of them are going to make it home intact. Then he can reconsider it, but for now, he needs the reassurance. 

Derek presses a kiss into his hairline, like he’s telling Stiles that he’s right, that it’s a good idea, that he should build this little piece of emotional security for himself because it’s a _good_ lie. Stiles melts into him a bit because he _needs_ this. 

And he just wants to say something, tell Derek how he _feels_ , tell him everything. But he can’t. Stops himself just in time. Self-preservation. He wants too badly to hear it said back to be able to handle hearing something else instead. Wants to hear _you’re mine_ and _I’m yours_ , whispered over and over in his ear, _growled_. Low and rough, and shit—

“ _Not here_ ,” he hears instead, just barely loud enough to be audible. “ _Think of something else because this is going to get awkward very fast_.” Stiles smiles in spite of himself. At least he can get this sort of reaction. At least—

“If you two start getting handsy back there, I _will_ pull this vehicle over.” Stiles looks up to meet a weirdly fatherly glare in the rearview mirror, and offers a sheepish smile.

“Sorry. Just nerves. We’ll keep our hands in plain sight. Promise,” he says, winking. It’s hilarious, honestly, because Stiles was _never_ in this position when he was a teenager. He didn’t date until college, and his dad never mistakenly thought he was involved with anyone. Except for Derek, apparently, which is still a mostly terrifying thought, but the three of them didn’t ever hang out, so it wasn’t like they’d have a weird situation there.

But he’s starting to get kind of jittery now. He’s not sure how far they are, not sure if they actually know _where_ to go, and not knowing is killing him. 

Also, he’s hungry. Probably because he threw up his last meal. And he’s kind of a nervous eater. 

 

He manages to hold for an entire half hour, until he knows that the sun will start rising soon, until he opens his mouth.

“Can we get breakfast? I don’t want to do this on an empty stomach. It doesn’t have to be a long stop, I just need nourishment of some kind. Pretty please.” 

“Fine. I’ll find a diner or something.”

 

This is how Stiles ends up sitting with Chris Argent and Derek Hale at an IHOP somewhere at the bottom of Oregon. 

It’s not something he ever would have expected to see himself doing. Ever. For many, many reasons. Especially with Derek pressed up against his side and an arm resting casually on top of the booth behind his shoulders. Jesus. What is his life these days?

But he’s got coffee, and, after a few minutes, a huge plate of various meatacious breakfast foods and he’s scarfing it all down while Chris and Derek pick at what pass for modest portions here. Any worries he had about not being able to scare up an appetite are completely gone by the time he realizes his plate is _clean_. And he has some caffeine in his system now, so yeah, he’s actually feeling pretty fucking peachy. Like he can take on an army of werewolves. Fuck, he probably _can_. What with the guns, which he is _more_ than competent with, probably better with them than Derek even, the ammo that means pretty much any hit is going to be severely debilitating at best, and the fact that his senses are sharper, instincts stronger, reflexes faster, and he’s pretty weirdly in-tune with Derek? Yeah, they can _do_ this. 

“I’m gonna wash my face, then let’s pay the bill and hit the road?” he says, looking to his breakfast-mates for confirmation.

“Sure.”

“I’ll come with you,” Derek says. Chris doesn’t bother to pretend he isn’t rolling his eyes.

“Just make it fast. The sooner we get there, the better.” 

Stiles shakes his head. “Oh, we’re not—“

“Just _go_. I really don’t want to know about it,” Chris says, then downs the rest of his coffee.

Stiles heads to the bathroom, grossly enough, finding it by scent, which, while pretty disgusting, is actually kind of useful. Derek’s close behind, and yeah, it probably looks bad. Hell, he can feel what’s rolling off of the other Alpha, and if anyone notices even a fraction of it, they’re getting arrested for public indecency. 

Getting to the bathroom first, though, means he can make sure it’s empty before Derek gets there. Which it is. Thank God. Because that would have been weird, what with Derek more or less slamming him against a stall as soon as he walks through the door. 

“Whoa, rein it in, cowboy,” he says, jerking his head away. “I am _not_ having sex in an IHOP bathroom. That’s too far.”

“I wasn’t planning on having sex with you here. I just needed to kiss you. May I?” Oh Jesus. The fact that he’s _asking permission_ makes Stiles a little weak at the knees. Like a fucking schoolgirl. That’s not okay. So no, he’s not going to swoon and blush, he’s going to grab Derek by his jaw and plant one on him. And that's what he does. Derek’s mouth just _gives_ , like this is all he’s been waiting for, and maybe it could be. There’s just a possibility that it might be true, and either way, his lips have Stiles fooled. The way he kisses, somehow both soft and insistent, feels like falling in love. It just sweeps him up, pulls him away from everything else, says _I’m here_ and _You are not alone_. 

This is the only way Stiles can tell him, he realizes. This is how he can let Derek know without putting it into words. In the yearning of his hands, the worship of his tongue, the promise of his lips. This is how he can shape a meaning and give it away because interpretation softens the blow, makes it something that can be swallowed and understood the way another person wants, not how it’s meant. This is easier. This can be a good thing. 

Derek breaks away. “Come on. Chris is waiting. When this is all over, we’ll have time for this.” Stiles nods, twisting his mouth. “I promise. We’ll have all the time in the world.” He pulls Stiles in and kisses his forehead, which should be weird, but it isn’t. It feels like a comfort. It’s what he needs to keep going.

“Alright. Let’s go kick some werewolf ass.”

 

In the car, where Chris is waiting with what looks like a very tired expression, Stiles starts thinking. He’s a _cop_ , it’s his business to be on the right side of the law, and what they’re going to do definitely isn’t. Not at all. 

“So, not to be a bit late to jump on this, but these guns aren’t registered, right? Because it would really suck for all of us to get out only to be arrested. I don’t think they’ll buy the whole ‘werewolves taking the law into their own hands’ thing. Just saying.”

“Nothing will be traced back to us. The wolfsbane will make them shift by the time they die, so even if there’s some sort of evidence, it won’t look like anything but a bunch of wolves. It’s better than multiple counts of first degree murder.” What with the whole being-a-werewolf thing, he’s not sure if he should feel kind of bad about all of this. Technically, they’re the same species and all of that. Maybe he should feel some sort of kinship with them. 

And then he remembers his dad, who’s got meds he should be taking and he’s probably pretty fucking sick right now, and Lydia, who’s been forced into being the victim too many times, and he doesn’t feel bad at all. Feels pretty good about it, actually. 

 

“Dent owns a hotel, a family thing,” Derek says when they’re in the right town. “It’s out on the fringes, near the base of the hills. You have to take an access road to get to it. I don’t know for sure that that’s where they’d keep them, but it’s a start.” Chris nods, following his directions through town. It’s a little bigger than Beacon Hills, spread out a little more, but that’s probably because it’s basically in a forest. It’s kind of pretty, actually. 

They pass through the center of town, and Stiles wonders if Maggie has memories here. Of eating at that restaurant, or seeing a movie at this theater. She probably does, and that’s a problem, because Stiles doesn’t know how to stop thinking of her as a person. He doesn’t want to fight her or hurt her, but there’s no way she doesn’t know by now. That two of her brothers are dead and it’s Stiles’ fault. That he acted like a friend to her only to turn around and stab her in the back. 

“We’re only going to hurt people if we have to to get to my dad and Lydia, right? I don’t want this to turn into some sort of massacre. I won’t kill without discretion.” He looks between the other two, both in the front, sees the look they trade.

“That’s the plan. We’re going by the code.”

Stiles nods, feeling a little bit better. He’s never killed anyone before. Shot someone once, but never killed, and he doesn’t want to start today unless it’s absolutely necessary. But who knows. There's already blood on his hands anyway.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty darn violent. Ye be warned...

It’s fucking ridiculous, actually. It’s the kind of thing that should be in slo-mo with thudding music in the background. 

The doors fly open in front of them, guns in their hands, and Stiles can _smell_ that none of the people in the lobby are human. He _knows_. The whole room goes dead-still, more in shock than fear.

“So this is how this is going to work, _friends_. You’re going to tell us where we can find Samuel Dent and his hostages, or we’ll start shooting. And _believe me_ , you don’t want to get hit with one of these,” Derek growls, half-shifted. If it weren’t for the fact that it’s _Derek,_ he’d be fucking _terrifying_. Stiles isn’t sure if he can handle a partial shift, so he just glares, tries to look as scary as possible. He’s got a good 'tough cop' face, good enough for these people, it seems. 

“Downstairs,” the woman at the desk says, only shaking a little. “You can take the service elevator. We’re cooperating.” Well, they must have heard about how one of the twins was killed by a non-fatal wound; they know to be careful, it’s clear in their eyes. 

So they take the elevator. It’s playing that smooth jazz, almost makes Stiles laugh. Here they are, the three of them armed and dangerous, and there’s fucking Muzak playing while they tap their feet in impatience. It’s comical. Or it would be, if they knew what they were going to walk into. 

It’s a hallway, it looks like. And it’s dead-silent. 

“Soundproof?” Stiles asks, looking at the doors, wondering if there could be someone behind them.

“At least they can’t hear us either.”

Chris, crossbow in position, gestures at the ceiling in several spots. “Cameras. They’re not stupid. They’re likely watching us right now.” 

“Yeah?” Stiles walks up to one of them, clearly in its line of sight, waving a hand at his companions when they move to protest. “Hey, asshole, why don’t you stop being a little bitch and tell us where we can find you? Look at you, hiding behind your cameras like a scared little pup, won’t even show your—“

A door at the end of the hall opens slightly. Stiles looks at the other two, shrugging. A big mouth can be a weapon, he knows that well.

“ _Let’s go_.” 

He’s got a gun in each hand, even though they pack a little more than is usually safe to fire one-handed, what with the recoil, but he’s counting on the werewolf healing factor. Derek’s got a shotgun, though the way his eyes keep flashing red suggests that he might drop it in favor of fighting claw-to-claw. That makes Stiles nervous, but he’s an Alpha. He’s stronger than all but one here. He should be fine. And Chris, well, he probably has the best chance of getting away without injury. Stiles has seen him with a crossbow and in hand-to-hand, and if he’s in as good shape as he looks still, he should be fine. 

They’re going to do this. They’re going to make it out fine. 

Derek insists on going first, swinging the door open with his gun poised to shoot. But there’s no one, just stairs. And voices. He can hear them now. 

“— _I don’t care_! We _have_ to get him to a hospital. We don’t know how to deal with this,” comes Maggie’s voice, whispered and echoing only slightly, and Stiles goes cold with fear. He doesn’t know how to _not_ worry about his dad, how to not assume the worst. That it's him she's talking about, that something's wrong.

“ _Shut your mouth_ —“ comes a low hiss, barely audible. Stiles knows that voice. Wants to make it stop forever. Because he didn’t just nearly _kill_ Stiles, he took his dad, his friend, people who didn’t deserve it, and Stiles just wants _blood_. Wants to feel it squelch under his nails and between his teeth, and _fuck_ , his _face_ , this is not right, his face shouldn’t feel like this—

His tongue twists out to map out elongated eyeteeth, and a snarl pushes through. 

No, he’s not going into this as an animal. He’s going to be human, he has to hold onto that. It’s important. It _means_ something. He’s in control, he has restraint—

His bones feel like quicksilver as they shift back. 

Yes, he can do this. He’d fought beside them as a human for long enough that he can do it still. 

When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he has to hold himself together because everything is screaming _threat, attack, fight_. There are ten of them, ten werewolves, at least, most crouched and pulled taut, waiting to be told to attack. Dent stands, wearing a suit, hands in the jacket pockets, too casual. Maggie’s sitting on a cot in the corner, next to a lump Stiles’ nose recognizes as his father. Lydia is tied to a chair, two betas on either side. She’s gagged, but her eyes widen at the sight of them. 

“I was wondering when we might see you.” His eyes bulge a little, then narrow at Stiles, his pulse picks up slightly. “A little later than I anticipated, I’ll admit, but I’m sure you had _fantastic_ reasons for waiting so long to visit. I can smell them on you.” Stiles frowns, inhaling, trying to figure out what he’s talking about. An there it is. He’d been too busy with Derek to notice that they _reek_ of each other, that if he sniffs a little, he can smell spit and earth and come. Fuck. They should have just come in shirts saying _Yeah, we had sex in the woods_. But either way, at least Dent hadn’t known he was alive. At least they have that bit of surprise on their side. And even if he’s clever enough to guess that Stiles is a werewolf, he probably won’t guess he’s an Alpha, not unless he shifts. 

“Let’s not waste time with this. We’re going to walk out of here with the Sheriff and Lydia. Whether anyone else leaves this room is entirely up to you. Frankly, I hope you put up a fight. I have a little vengeance of my own. Not exactly fond of the way you decided to attack my pack  _in their home_. Not at all.” Derek growls, low and reverberating. 

Maggie lets out a loud sigh, bursting in with, “Oh my God, can we get _over_ all of this already? There are more important things—“

“This is the last time I will tell you to be quiet,” Dent says, effectively cutting her off, “or I will send you upstairs. With an escort, if need be. Now.” He turns back towards Derek, Chris, and Stiles, wearing a twisted approximation of a smile. “You’re all going to lay your weapons down on the floor _gently_ , and then you’re going to step forward so we can negotiate. Or I’ll kill the woman.” Before they can do anything, the betas flanking Lydia each have a claw against her throat. Even if they can shoot them both at precisely the same moment, there’s too much risk.

Stiles is the first to crouch down slowly and set his guns down, nodding at the other two. He looks up as he stands and walks forward a few paces. 

“We’re doing this peacefully unless you force us to act differently. We don’t want to hurt anyone,” he says, glancing at Maggie with as much as an apology as he can give without saying it to her directly. Derek and Chris lay their weapons down hesitantly. 

Dent laughs. “You think you actually have a chance of hurting anyone here? You’re outnumbered and outmatched. A young Alpha, a new Beta, and an aged hunter. Do you honestly think that’s enough to win here?” He nods at two of his betas, who collect their weapons and move them away.

“Let’s find out,” Derek says, rolling his body into a partial shift. Stiles is going to have to get him to teach him that, but now, he has other things to worry about. Namely, keeping this from escalating. He touches Derek’s shoulder gently, loosely holding him back. 

“Just give them to us and everything will be fine. We don’t want to fight.”

“Of course you don’t want to _fight_.” A snarl, and the fangs come out. “You know you’d _lose_.” That’s apparently too much for Derek because he launches himself at Dent. Stiles is about to try to join him when four betas close in on him and Chris, fangs bared. _Shit_. They’re too much for them to handle, not unless Stiles can control a partial shift, which he _really_ doesn’t want to mess with. 

The first one shoots out a claw at Chris, who dodges and slams at his elbow, and, like that, two of them are on him. Stiles ducks out of the way as something in him starts singing for blood, trying to tear out of his body. His face burns and melts, and when he comes up again, behind them, he knows he’s not his pretty little self. 

He grabs them by the hair, sure he’s cutting gouges into their scalps, and slams their heads together. They whine, crumpling, as a third leaps at him. The force of the attack throws him to the floor, but Stiles absorbs the momentum in a roll, launching the beta off of him with his feet, carrying through the motion smoothly to land on his hands and the balls of his feet. There are howls and snarls coming from the other side of the room, but he’s more focused on the two werewolves getting to their feet. One goes low while the other goes high. Stiles jumps, tucking his feet in, then slams down on one of them like a spring board, hearing a loud _snap_ , using him to push against so he can get some force into a headbutt. The one whining on the floor beneath him is clutching his broken collarbone. Stiles smashes his boot onto it, then grabs his other arm, wrenching it until he hears his shoulder pop from the socket. Aims a sharp kick for his sides, right at his floating ribs. 

The second one is holding his bleeding head, trying to get to his feet. Stiles kicks him under the chin, snapping his head back and sending him sprawling onto the floor. He’s whining, the pathetic creature. Bleeding and whining and barely able to move. Stiles stomps on his groin, eliminating him as a threat.

The third is getting to his feet, uses the wall to launch himself at Stiles. The impact knocks him off-balance, sends them both to the floor, where Stiles swipes long, deep furrows into his chest and stomach, clawing him to shreds. 

When he stands, bloody and snarling, he takes everything in. The fourth beta is smashing Chris’ head into the concrete floor. Stiles leaps and throws the werewolf off, not giving him time to recover, just grabs his neck and twists. Lets him collapse to the floor. Immediately, he falls to Chris’ side, face settling back in at a boil. Chris’ head is bloody and he’s definitely unconscious, but there’s a pulse there. Weak, but still there. Shit. He needs medical attention. Stiles doesn’t know enough first aid to handle this. 

The hair on the back of his neck suddenly prickles, a shiver running through him. Something’s wrong. He spins around, choking. 

Dent and four betas are swarmed around Derek, who’s growling and snarling so _loud_. And then most of them pull away. 

He’s in chains.

They’ve chained him to the floor like an animal, and he’s _hurt_. They must have all taken him at once because there’s no way Dent would have been able to hurt him like that himself, there’s too much blood, and _fuck_. 

He can’t control it, can’t hold it in, his bones are just shifting and fusing and twisting and it’s _painful_ and wrong and raw. His skin boils away, fur bursting through, and he’s gone but he’s _here_ , he’s so _in the moment_. Each breath, each heartbeat, the gurgle of digesting food, all of it is sharp and clear to his ears. Each bead of sweat, the sharp, tangy scent of fear, it’s all hitting him, drowning him in the knowledge that they _fear_ him. That he could kill _all_ of them. Because he could. It would be so easy, feel so _good_. 

He looks at each of them, gauging the degree to which they’re all panicking, settling on the least of all of them, on Maggie, who’s afraid, but also has something like recognition in her eyes.

“Don’t hurt her. I’ll let him go. Just don’t hurt her.” His eyes snap to Dent. He’s half a wolf, but there’s still fear in him. It tastes like power. His eyes dart to the betas. “For fuck’s sake, _let him go_.” 

Chains rattle. 

Stiles takes a step forward. Dent takes one back. 

“You can have them. I didn’t realize. They’re yours. I’m sorry, just don’t hurt her.” Stiles’ head quirks to the side, trying to ask what he can’t because he doesn’t have human vocal chords anymore. “You can kill me, just leave her. This is my fault. Do what you want with me.”

 _Submission_.

Something in him preens at it, makes him settle back down into himself a little. 

Dent’s head bows, and the wolf falls back inside him; it has what it needs. A show of submission. Surrender. It _likes_ it. 

Stiles shakes himself out almost unconsciously, trying to get all of the spare bits back together. He’s wearing his human skin, can feel it now, but Dent’s still bowed. Still afraid of the wolf.

“You fear me,” he says softly, ashamed of the thrill it gives him. But all he can hear in response is a quiet groan from Derek. It makes something twist in him, and the betas part like water when he rushes to Derek’s side. Wipes the blood off of Derek’s cheek, away from his mouth. Touches his hair. His hand starts to pull away, but Derek grabs him roughly. 

“Don’t. This’ll help.” He coughs on it a little. “Just give me a moment. T’heal.” He moves Stiles’ hand down to his chest, over slashes and broken ribs. Stiles shakes, knowing he’s injured, fighting himself to stay human still. 

“Someone get a first aid kit,” Stiles orders, then jerks his head in Chris’ direction. “For him.” Two betas run off, and he’s pleased that they obey him, pleased in the worst way. “Untie Lydia.” 

When he looks over to the corner of the room, Maggie shifts, saying, “We don’t know what’s wrong with him. He’s not…not well. I’m sorry.” 

“He just had surgery. For his heart. He has medications he’s supposed to take, dietary restrictions, specific permitted activities. He needs a hospital,” he explains hollowly, cold fear spreading through him. He’s alive, Stiles can hear the double thump of his heart, but it’s softer than it should be, and _fast_. He can smell a cold sweat on him, too. He’s not healthy. 

“I’ll take him. I’m sorry about this.” She scoops Stiles’ father into her arms, throwing him an apologetic look.

Stiles shakes his head. “I’m the one who should be sorry. Thank you. For looking after him.” Maggie’s face twists and she starts to shake her head.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Dent says. “We didn’t understand the situation. We’re grateful for the mercy you’ve shown us.” He looks at Maggie and jerks his head at the door. She walks swiftly, balancing his father’s weight well. But Stiles’ mind is catching on Dent’s words.

“What situation? What, you’re scared of a big bad Alpha? Since when?”

Dent’s eyes narrow, looking between him and Derek like he absolutely doesn’t understand Stiles’ confusion. “I’m not fool enough to fight an Alpha for their mate. Only someone with a death wish would. If that’s what you mean, then yes, I have a healthy fear considering the situation. And I wasn’t about to let another of my children be caught in the crossfire.” Stiles looks down at Derek, frowning. Derek’s eyes are shut, his face pulled tight, like he’s in some sort of Vulcan healing trance, or at least the werewolf equivalent. But he’s not exactly offering any reasoning for why Dent’s throwing around the word _mate_ , or even what, exactly, that means. 

“Wha—“ he starts to ask, and then it _hits_ him. 

He’s the Pack Mom. Because he’s the second Alpha.

The second Alpha.

That form Alpha pairs with the other Alpha. 

Pairs, meaning _mates_. 

Like Derek’s parents. Like Dent thought Maggie and Derek would be. But they weren’t.

Because Derek is _Stiles’_ mate. 

They’re mates. Pair-bonded. 

And Derek _didn’t tell him_. 

Stiles looks down at Derek with something like a snarl. “You and I are having a _long_ conversation when we get out of here, big boy. Don’t even think you’re going to be able to wiggle your way out of this one. _Not okay_.” 

“You had no idea?” Dent asks, genuinely surprised. “You didn’t know any more than I did.” Stiles doesn’t answer, swearing to himself that he’s going to smack Derek around a little when he’s all healed because that’s just the kind of thing you _tell_ someone. He assumes. He’s not exactly sure precisely what it means, if it makes them werewolf husbands or what, but he’s pretty sure it’s something along those lines, which is _definitely_ not something he remembers signing up for. Not that he _wouldn’t_ sign up for it, given the chance, but it’s something he might’ve liked to know about, you know, maybe before he and Derek had mate-sex in the woods. And then mate-kissed. And mate-talked. And now everything they do is going to relate back to the fact that they’re _mates_. 

_What the fuck?_

Does that mean Derek actually has feelings for him now? Is that how it works?

“Alright, so, as someone new to the whole werewolf shebang, exactly how much choice do I get in this? Did I pick him or something? Because I don’t remember ever doing anything like that. Ever.” 

Dent sighs and pulls up a chair, sitting on it backwards. “You don’t _pick_ your mate. They just _are_. That’s how it’s always been. Alphas have mates; it’s the way of things." Then, like he's talking more to himself than anything else, "It must not have been clear before because you were human." He looks up, explains: "It’s uncommon for a human and werewolf to be mates. It just doesn’t happen.”

Stiles lets that work its way around his head a little. Because they’re _special_. He and Derek have something uncommon and weird that doesn’t really happen. That has to mean something. There’s no way they’re not _supposed_ _to be together_. And if Stiles is being honest with himself, it makes sense. For as long as he left Beacon Hills, he’d never been actually happy, not the way he was with Derek before he left. He’s never cared about anyone the way he cares about Derek. It just doesn’t compare. 

And you know what? He’ll fight for it if he has to. He’s done rolling over and accepting that he isn’t loved. No, if they’re mates, then Derek _has_ to love him. Stiles will talk him into it if he doesn’t. He’ll work for it, and he won’t accept anything less. 

Stiles looks down at him, at the steady rise and fall of his chest, almost like he’s—

“Are you _sleeping_?” Stiles asks loudly. 

Derek frowns his way into consciousness, blinking a little. “I _hurt_.” Stiles knows what he looks like when he’s playing the pouty puppy card. He’s seen this before, even if it's been a few years. 

“Oh, shush. Get your ass up, or I will _carry_ you if I have to. We’re going to go to the hospital and I’m going to make sure my dad is okay. And then we’re going to have a very long discussion about important things that you should have told me. Now come on.” He hops to his feet, hauls Derek up, and helps him steady himself. 

There’s a soft groan from the corner, and Stiles notices that Lydia’s crouched next to Chris. “We’re taking him to the emergency room,” she says. “One of you help me carry him.” Stiles shakes his head, mad at himself for having forgotten about her, even though she can take care of herself just fine. “Don’t just stand there and look at me like you’re stupid. Move. Your _ass_.” 

Stiles looks at Derek, making sure he can stand and walk on his own before rushing over, hopping over a couple of whimpering betas that he’s not going to let himself feel bad about yet, to sling Chris’ arm around his shoulders and wrap an arm around his waist so he can sort-of help him walk. Because Chris is semi-conscious, muttering under his breath, eyes half-lidded. 

Lydia grabs his other arm, helping support his other side. “Now let’s get ourselves to a car and find us a hospital. Let’s go.” 

Dent slides past, saying, “I’ll lead you there. Or do you want me to drive? It’s about fifteen minutes.”

“That would be good. Thanks.” Dent doesn’t reply, but they form a slow train up the stairs, down the hall, into the damn elevator. Derek’s half-leaning on him, too, one hand on his shoulder for support. They must look like a complete mess. 

There’s a ding when the elevator hits the lobby, and when the doors slide open, everyone’s staring at them. They must look _marvelous_. 

“Lisa, hold the fort while I’m gone,” Dent says to the woman at the desk as they slide (well, _limp_ ) by, out to the small parking lot. 

“Do you have something big enough for him to lay down in?” Lydia asks, panting a little from exertion. 

“We’ve got his SUV,” Stiles says. “We can flip down all the seats in the back. That should work.” He digs for a moment in Chris’ pockets, then tosses the keys to Dent. “Pop open the back.”

They sit Chris down so he can lean against the inside of the car while Stiles starts flattening the seats as fast as he can. They’re made to turn the back into a truck bed, basically, so when he’s done, they pull Chris in so he can lay down all the way. Lydia climbs in with him to keep an eye on him, and Stiles follows. He turns to Derek, who’s about to join them.

“There’s not that much room, you know. Just take the front.” 

Derek shakes his head and climbs in. “I’ll heal faster with you.” Huh. Stiles frowns a little, then shrugs, shutting the door behind him. Must be one of those mate things. That no one tells him about. _No one_ being in reference to Derek in particular. Because Derek hasn’t really told him shit and _that talk_. It’s going to be very long and hopefully painful. For Derek. In an uncomfortable, awkward way. 

Maybe almost as uncomfortable as the fact that they're trusting the guy who tried to _kill_ Stiles, who kidnapped people he cares about, to drive them all to the hospital and not to some ditch. 

The drive feels like it last forever because even though Derek is pressed up against his side, he’s worrying. About his dad, about Chris, about everything. It's all fucked sideways. None of it should have ever happened. He just needs everyone to be okay. Is that too much to ask?


	11. Chapter 11

When they pull up to the hospital, before they head in, Stiles makes Derek take off his bloody shirt because even if it’s a bit skeevy to wear only a leather jacket, it’s better than bloodstains. His own shirt isn’t too bad, nothing that can’t be explained by Chris’ head wound, which, he tells them repeatedly, is because he fell down the stairs. Just so they have their story straight. Because a bunch of people walking in bloody? That looks bad. Really bad. 

The emergency room nurse at the desk takes one look at Chris and the blood all over his face and shirt and says, “Take him to the first empty exam room on your right. Some of you come get the paperwork because there’s no more than three allowed in a room at a time. A doctor will be with you shortly.” Stiles hands Chris off to Dent and goes to collect the clipboard, Derek following closely behind. He takes a seat in one of the crappy chairs, eerily similar to the crappy chairs at the Beacon Hills Hospital. 

His seat has a good vantage point, so he can see down the hall, sees a doctor power-walking her way to Chris’ room. He wants to stand outside and make sure everything is okay, but he’s had enough experience with hospitals to know that it’s best to just let the doctors do their jobs. Still, he gets about halfway through the first box on the sheet when he stops and turns to Derek.

“Hey, do you have your phone on you?”

“I—“ Derek checks his pockets, pulling it out “—yeah, why?”

“Can you call Maggie? See how my dad is doing? I could go find them, but if you’re tagging along, we’re a bit more conspicuous.” He gestures vaguely at Derek’s lack of a shirt and general attractiveness. Derek shrugs and makes the call.

“ _He’s going to be fine_.” Well, at least Maggie knows what to open with. “ _He’s sleeping right now. They’ve got him hooked up to an IV. I think they want to keep him here for a couple days, monitor his heart._ ” 

“We’re here at the hospital,” Derek tells her. “Where are you?”

“ _Let me_ — _Ah. Room 451. But I’m not even allowed in. They want him to rest._ ”

“We’ll sort out everything here first. You know, what with Mr. Argent’s fall.” 

“ _Right. Okay. And who’s ‘we’?_ ”

Derek rattles off names and keeps talking while Stiles tries to power through the paperwork. The sooner they can get out of the waiting room, the better. 

 

It’s fifteen minutes and a quick dash to the exam room for Chris’ wallet before he can hand the clipboard back to the desk nurse. She looks at it, checks it over, and he just wants to _go_. To find his dad. Or something. Can’t handle inaction right now. And Derek is palming his back, even though there’s an older woman who’s giving them the stink eye, but it’s not really enough to ease him. Not until he knows everyone is fine. _Knows_. Sees it with his own eyes. 

The desk nurse gives him a short nod and he pretty much darts off to Chris’ room. 

The doctor is shining a light in his eyes, moving it back and forth. Lydia looks a little nervous, and for a moment, Stiles wonders if this is more of that _thing_ she used to have. With Peter Hale. If she’s just drawn to older guys. But he shakes it off as something to think about later, watching to see how Chris is doing. The blood has been cleaned off his face and neck, and there are stitches in his head, but he looks more conscious than he did before, so that’s a plus. 

The doctor pulls away, tuck her flashlight into her pocket. “Well, he’s got a moderate concussion. Don’t let him sleep for a few hours. He might throw up, that’s fine as long as it isn’t blood or anything. You can give him Tylenol and ice, but don’t overdo it. He’ll be fine. You should be free to go once you clear up insurance and payment.” They all sigh in relief, relaxing a little. 

“Great. Thank you so much,” Lydia says, smiling politely. The doctor nods and leaves. 

“So, we’re going to go find my dad,” Stiles says. “Oh, and Maggie’s here still, by the way.” Dent nods. 

“Oh, shit, what day is it? I have to call Jackson. I’m supposed to have Shane, he’s going to be pissed—“

“Jackson is aware of the situation,” Derek assures her. “It’s fine. Erica is helping with babysitting. And Boyd is babysitting _her_. There’s nothing to worry about.” 

“Thank God.” 

Stiles feels inconsiderate, but they’re all fine and he has his dad to worry about now. “Awesome. I’ll see you all later. I’ve gotta find my dad.”

He’s out the door with Derek at his side a second later, almost amused at how Derek’s like his shadow now. He actually does seem to be feeling a bit better and he’s a little less grabby that he had been earlier. But this way they can be a little bit more stealthy as they creep through the halls, to the stairs, around and around for _way_ longer than it should reasonably take before they see Maggie sitting against the wall down a hallway. Her head is leaning back, legs splayed, clearly having been sitting there for a while, but she perks up when she hears them and waves them over. 

Stiles slides down the wall next to her, Derek on his other side. “Do we know anything?”

She sighs, frowning a little, then points with her head to her right. “He’s in there, all hooked up. They wouldn’t tell me anything, but I heard them talking, and they’re worried about him. They think he’s been under too much stress lately. His heart was weak from the surgery already, and they’re worried about permanent damage.”

“ _Permanent damage?_ ” Derek puts a hand on his knee, making him realize he’d gotten loud. “What does that mean?”

“I can’t be sure, since they didn’t say, but I don’t think they mean _death_ or anything. At least it didn’t sound like that. They _told_ me he was okay at first, but I guess they're not sure if there's more than they first saw?” She looks actually _concerned_ , and Jesus, Stiles doesn’t deserve to know her. 

“Hey, Derek, can you get like, some sodas and snacks or something? Here,” he says, handing him his wallet. Derek looks at him for a moment, largely blank, then gets up and starts walking down the hall. Stiles watches him for a moment, almost unconsciously drawn to him, then looks away. Maggie gives him a look. 

“ _Subtle_ ,” she mouths. Stiles shrugs, holding up a finger, waiting until Derek is pretty much out of earshot. 

“Look, I just wanted to apologize before this gets weird. I’m…I’m really sorry about all of this. I tried _not to_ , you know, I tried really hard because it wasn’t fair to you and I didn’t want to be that person, but I did it anyway, and I’m sorry.”

Maggie _rolls her eyes_. “Stiles. Shut up. You are not seriously apologizing. First of all, that is absolutely the wrong stance to have on all of this. Hypothetical girl’s boyfriend leaves her for someone else? It’s not the someone else’s fault; it’s the _boyfriend_ ’s. He made a choice to be with you, so don’t apologize for anything because it isn’t your fault. You didn’t _make_ him like you better. Which brings me to my second and way more important point: you’re mates. That trumps everything else, and quite frankly, I don’t have any interest in being with someone else’s mate, not when I am perfectly capable of finding my own, if that’s how fate would have it. Besides, I wasn’t really _in love_ with Derek or anything. I just liked him. A lot. I mean, he’s a good guy. You deserve him. You deserve each other.”

“I’m starting to think maybe you’re right. Getting there.” He stares at the linoleum tiles for a moment, counting them. “Thanks for looking after my dad, too. I know you probably don’t like him very much and I would never blame you for that—“

“Stiles, what my father and brothers did? They didn’t even _tell_ me about you and Derek until after. If they had, I would have made them back off. It was an overreaction, and frankly, it was stupid. My dad made a bad decision and we all paid the price. Cory and Leo deserved better than that, but maybe they should have challenged him. Well, no, that’s not fair, but any father would’ve just what yours did, and I’m not going to blame him, especially after what he’s been through. And Lydia, God, tell her I’m sorry, will you? I don’t think they meant to take her in the first place, but it was stupid.”

“I think it’ll mean a lot to her that you said that. And thank you. Really.” He glances at her feet, her toes tapping restlessly against the floor, and half-smiles. “Can we still be friends?” he asks softly.

“You’d have to make an effort to convince me otherwise.” She grins at him, then leans her head on his shoulder. “I don’t want all of you to hate me.” He can feel her jaw move as she talks

“Not a chance.” 

He hears Derek coming from down the hall before he sees him. His jacket is zipped all the way up, but as he moves, there’s a strip of skin visible above his jeans. He’s carrying three sodas, tucked under an arm, and when he sees Stiles watching him, he makes something like a smile and his pace quickens. Stiles can hear his heartbeat, the way his pulse accelerates just a little, and it makes something in his stomach twist and jump. 

“This is the best I could find,” he says, sliding onto his butt, and passes out the sodas. Maggie sits up, thanks him, and for a few long moments, the three of them just sit there, sipping their sodas, in a comfortable break of conversation. 

“Your dad’s here, by the way,” Derek says to Maggie. “Down a few levels.” 

“Yeah? I should go find him. I don’t trust him by himself.” She gets up, stops, frowns. “Why do I have the feeling that I have to be the parent to my own father? I don’t like it. Is there some place you can trade them in for ones who don’t act like children? Children in possession of deadly force, specifically?”

Stiles grins in spite of himself. “You should start a place like that.” 

“Maybe I will.” She shrugs, then says, “I’m going to see you later,” before walking off. 

“You had a good talk?” Derek asks. 

“Yep. Speaking of good talks—“ Stiles turns a death glare on him “— _we_ are going to have a talk. Right now.”

Derek takes an innocent sip of his soda. “About what, exactly?”

“ _About what_? Are you being serious right now? You don’t think we have anything pressing to talk about?” Derek shrugs. “Yeah, no, let’s try that whole thing where we’re apparently _mates_ and you decided not to tell me. That’s maybe somewhere to start. So go. Explain yourself.”

Derek shrugs again. “I thought you knew.” 

“You thought I _knew_?” Stiles asks, completely unable to comprehend that.

“I wasn’t completely certain until after you were turned, and then it seemed pretty obvious. I could feel it. I just assumed you felt it too.”

“Except what with the _crazy werewolf senses_ , maybe I was a little overloaded on new feelings.” 

Derek sighs. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. If I had, I would have explained.”

“So that’s it, then. We’re just…mates. That’s all there is to it.”

“Try not to sound _too_ excited about it.”

“What am I supposed to say, Derek?” Stiles tries to find answers in his face. “I don’t even know what it _means_.”

“It means…well, it means everything,” Derek says, like he has absolutely no idea how to put it into words. “It means I’m yours and you’re mine and no one else can be that for either of us, not ever. It’s permanent. We’re just…meant to be. No one can come between us.”

“But you don’t even _lo_ — You don’t even feel that way about me. I don’t understand how that can just appear out of thin air because I’m a fucking werewolf now.”

Derek shakes his head slowly, eyes wide, almost offended or something. “What are you _talking_ about? I know you don’t have amnesia, so I really don’t understand what you’re saying.” He looks at Stiles intensely. “I’ve loved you for _years_ , Stiles. I can’t even really remember what it’s like _not_ to anymore.”

Stiles stares at his hands, brain not quite processing that. It just doesn’t make sense. Not at all. 

 _How?_  

“You’re not making any sense. I…If you— _you know_ , for that long, then _why_ —“ He rubs his face, trying to hold himself together under the weight of it, then stops, throat suddenly dry and sore. “That day. At your house. The day before I left? When I kissed you and you _pushed me to the floor_? That was _pretty clear_ , at least from where I was standing.” 

“Stiles. _You were about to go to college_ ,” he says, like it means something. Like it means everything.

He shakes his head. “I had everything in place to not go. I hadn’t paid for anything past my deposit, I had all the paperwork to withdraw. I was going to stay if you— if you wanted me. I didn’t even want to go in the first place, it was just my dad, and you made me fill out all of those applications— I only went because I thought I’d ruined our friendship. I thought you _hated_ me.” His voice turns soft at the end as he relives it, how he’d had to physically hold himself together, how he’d wanted to hurt himself for ruining everything. How the first night at school, he’d gone to a party and gotten stupid-drunk and lost his virginity to a guy he’d only called _Derek_ who hadn't even worn a fucking condom.

“I _never_ hated you. I just…I was surprised. I didn’t think it was real, I thought you were just sad about leaving everything behind, that you were just confused. You didn’t know what you wanted.”

“I wanted _you_. That was all. Just you. I’ve spent almost eleven years trying to find something that’ll compare, and there’s _nothing_. Do you know what that feels like? To think you’ve thrown away the best person you’ve ever known? Because it _sucks_.” 

Derek lets out a soft _huff_ of a laugh. “How do you think I’ve felt all this time? When you didn’t come back that first break, or the next, or the next, I thought I’d pushed you away too far. And then you just never came back, and I told myself, _If he decided you’re worth it, he’ll come back, just be patient_. But you didn’t. And I— When you came to the house, I smelled you before you even got out of the car, I recognized your heartbeat, and I thought it was a _dream_. And it wasn’t, you were real, and your timing was _awful_. Maggie was due any minute, and she hinted that Samuel would be with her, and there you were. It was the absolute _worst_.” 

“I hated it, you know. Seeing that everything was not only fine and whole, but beautiful, that you were doing just fine. I hated that I never got to see you rebuild everything, that I wasn’t a part of that,” Stiles confesses, unable to look at him. 

“But you _were_. After you left, I did _nothing_. I was lost; I had depended on you so much for the most insignificant things, and once you were gone, I didn’t know how to function. Erica and Scott had to have an intervention.” He nods. “Yeah, it was bad. But then I realized that I didn’t want you to come back to nothing, to a half-burnt house only barely made habitable, so I started working on it. For you. I wanted you to have a home to come back to. It took three years, and you still were gone, but I said to myself, _Once he graduates, he’ll come back_. I asked your dad what your last day was, got everything ready, had everyone come over, set it all up for you, but you didn’t show. You never did. Not until after I gave up, until I stopped hoping.” His fists clench in his lap. It’s the most Stiles has ever heard him say at once, he thinks, and he doesn’t look like he’s done. 

“And when Maggie and I went to the bar and you were there, smelling like everyone else, Iwas so _mad_ at you, for just a moment. For picking them over me, even though I sent you away, I just couldn’t— I didn’t know how to deal with it. You were so _angry_ , too, and I just wanted to grab you and tell you you were mine, not theirs, but Maggie was there and she wouldn’t understand, so I acted on impulse. I wanted you to be jealous. Like I was jealous. Only you were mad, and then you were drunk and I just couldn’t do it. Not unless I could be sure you wanted to be with me.”

Stiles presses his nose into Derek’s shoulder, taking in the scent of him, of leather, of blood. It’s _real_. That means that _this_ is real. That this is really happening. 

“I’ve always wanted to be with you,” Stiles says, resting his chin on Derek’s shoulder now. “However you’d take me, I just wanted to _be with you_. And I wanted you to love me, but I guess I was afraid to ask. I didn’t want to hear you say no. The thought is terrifying. I don’t think I’d be able to feel like this and be certain that you didn’t at least like me back. I don’t think I’d be able to keep going.” Derek barely has to lean in to kiss him. The way he cups Stiles’ cheek makes him melt, like he wants Derek to drink him in, to swallow him whole and cradle him inside his chest. If this is love, if this is what forever feels like, then it’s better than he could have thought. It’s everything. It tastes like salvation, like old memories and fresh paint and the promise of potential, of growth. 

“If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t know how to care about people,” Derek whispers against his lips after he pulls away. “I had no idea how to let anyone in until you.” 

“Because of your family?” He’s not sure if they’re quite _there_ yet; they had been once, had gotten to the point where Derek would just talk about them sometimes, would tell him stories as he remembered them, and Stiles would talk about his mom, and when they shared it, their grief would lessen just a little. But he’s not sure if he’s said the wrong thing, if it’s too soon to jump back in there again. 

“My family. And Kate. Mostly Kate.” A chill goes through him. Stiles _barely_ remembers her, only saw her face-to-face a couple of times, but she was _scary_. And he knows that she and Derek have a _history_ , he’s just never asked and Derek’s never volunteered it. Stiles had always just assumed that the wound was too raw, needed to scab over a little first, and after the dreams, he’s starting to piece it together a little better, but that was chaos, fractured, warped by guilt into fiction.

“Do you…I mean, is it alright if I ask about what happened? I know she…your family. But that’s all I really know.” Derek takes his hand and kisses his palm, like he’s thinking hard. Kisses the inside of his wrist, then wraps Stiles’ hand in his own. 

“I was sixteen and awkward, and she was gorgeous and liked me anyway. She…I gave her everything. I didn’t know to be careful, to hold back, so I loved her. I told my parents she was my tutor, and I brought her home and they loved her. And then they found out that we…They thought I was too young to make those kinds of decisions, so they sent me to New York, with Laura, trying to get me as far away from her as possible. And then she set them on fire.” It’s clear now that he’s holding onto Stiles’ hand for support, for comfort, because this is still hard for him. Stiles used to joke that he’s got the emotional range of a Vulcan, and maybe he does — and inch wide and a mile deep — because Derek’s still affected by everything. It’s the kind of loss that can’t be comprehended. Not just one person, which is a horrible, ugly void, but _everyone_. Everyone he ever loved. All at once. 

Stiles nuzzles in against his throat, taking in his scent, offering him the comfort of intimacy. “It wasn’t your fault,” he says softly to Derek’s jaw, placing a light kiss where his breath hits. “ _Stop blaming yourself_.” 

He doesn’t know how long they sit there, just leaning on each other, or even if they’re awake the whole time, but suddenly there’s a very confused-looking nurse standing in front of them. 

“You’re not who I left here. Have you signed in as visitors?” 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, fairly confident that they did not, in fact. “He’s my dad. Can you tell me how he’s doing?” 

“Come on,” she says, waving for them to follow her into the room. Stiles’ entire lower half is numb and the first steps he takes are beyond embarrassing, but Derek looks just as uncomfortable, so at least he’s not alone. 

And there’s his dad. Asleep, dressed in a hospital gown, tubes in his arm, the back of his hand. Stiles doesn’t need to look at the monitor to know that his heartbeat is weak, whispery and rough, not clear like it should be. And he’s pale, too pale, but at least he’s alive. 

“Is he going to be okay?” he asks, unable to take his eyes off of the rise and fall of his father’s chest.

The nurse picks up the chart, looks through it. “He’s…It’s going to take him a long time to get up to where he was before. The recent heart attack? Just a symptom of an underlying problem. His arteries are clogged, and he’s going to need to take meds for that for the rest of his life. Really, he should have been taking something much earlier, something preventative, but what can you do? I take it he hasn’t been very good about yearly check-ups?” Stiles can’t answer that, but she takes his look as confirmation. “Bottom line, his heart isn’t healthy and he’s going to need someone to look after him. He’s going to have to be on a strict diet for a long time. You might want to look into hiring a day nurse if you work long hours.” 

“How long?” Stiles shifts uneasily. “He’s a sheriff. His job is really important to him.” 

She shakes her head. “After this? He won’t be back in shape for months. It’s done a number on him. Your sister said he took off on some sort of soul-searching mission? You might want to advise him not to do that again. Someone two weeks out of surgery shouldn’t be running around without his meds. This was…close.” Stiles doesn’t realize he’s shaking until Derek stills him with a palm pressed flat to his back. He’s angry, scared, guilty. Can’t even think about what he’d do if his dad died. 

“When will we be able to take him home?” Derek asks for him because he’s apparently unable to talk. 

“The doctor wants to keep him overnight to make sure everything’s alright. You can check him out sometime tomorrow morning.” Derek guides him over to the chair against the wall, sits him down, as the nurse does her business, checking on everything. Stiles’ hands are shaking in his lap, just trembling, even as Derek rubs his neck soothingly. 

Jesus, he’s _definitely_ going to have to stay in town. It was kind of implied by the whole _forever_ thing, but this is putting it in perspective. He’s going to have to call the Chief, tell her he’s not going to be coming back to work, not really. He’s going to have to say goodbye to everyone he knows, pack up his things, get his _cat_ , fuck, there’s so much to do. So many stupid, practical things he doesn’t want to do because he _hates_ moving, as a general rule, and it’s _far_ this time. Shit. And he has to plan things around the full moon again, isn’t that just great? Can’t fly up next week, even if Mrs. McCall can take care of his dad for a couple of days, so it’s going to have to be later, shit. He’ll have to clean out his desk, and they’re going to be pissed that he’s just _leaving_ it for so long. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Derek asks. He’s crouched down next to him, and thank got the nurse is gone because he feels like a mess right now. No one should have to see this. 

“No, it’s nothing, it’s just a lot to process.” He rubs his eyes for a moment, trying to clear his head. “Do you even _like_ cats? Is that even possible for a werewolf?” When he pulls his hands away from his face, Derek’s wearing a somewhat confused look, and it’s stupid, that it’s actually _adorable_. 

“Were you planning on getting a cat?”

He shakes his head. “No, I have one. Up in Minneapolis. My neighbor’s looking after him and he’s going to be _pissed_ because it was only supposed to be for a week or two. But his name is Remus and he’s kind of overweight and he doesn’t even pee all over the place. He’s a _good_ cat. And I must be going crazy if I’m freaking out about my _cat_.” 

“Well, I mean, I’m not going to tell you to get rid of him. We don’t have a good track record with cats, just instinctual, but maybe because he already knows you, it’ll be fine.” He looks concerned, but he’s smiling, hands on Stiles’ knees. “Are you really freaking out about your cat right now?”

“No, it’s just…there’s so much to _do_ before I can move back here. And exactly zero time to do any of it. I need to take care of my dad _first_. That all that matters.” 

“ _Hey_.” Derek cups his cheek, smiling just a little. “It’s gonna be okay. He’s gonna be okay, and there’s nothing to worry about anymore. It won’t be hard to find someone to look out for him for a few days so you can get everything in order. It’s all going to be fine. You’ve got me, and you’ve got the pack, and we’re all going to work together until your dad is back on his feet. Alright? It’s gonna be okay.” 

This time, Stiles lets himself believe him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh sweet lord I the worst issues with this chapter and I ended up rewriting it, like, seven times, and I'm sorry I took so long with it. Hope it's worth the wait!

It’s not a montage, but it feels like one.

He flies to Minneapolis.

He takes a cab from the airport. (It’s cold outside, he’s forgotten, almost, what it’s like to be cold.)

He picks up his car, refuses to see if his cat hates him now, and drives to the station. 

And then: Grace, the Chief, Martin who sits three desks away, the kid from pathology who’s only been their a month and Stiles can’t remember if his name is Don or Dean, Grace again, and then. _And then_. 

Derek. 

It’s like his entire body is somehow tuned in to Derek’s frequency because he can hear the particular thump of his heart, can just barely smell his skin, and somehow, maybe the same way dogs know to howl at the moon when they’re alone, he just _knows_ , instinctively, that Derek is in the building. It’s weird, unexpected, because he shouldn’t be here, but he _is_. 

The montage stops. Everything slows down. Because there’s Derek, stepping out of the elevator, meeting his eyes with a sheepish smile and shrug. 

“ _I thought you might want some help_ ,” he whispers. It’s loud enough for Stiles to hear on the other side of the room, but no one else would have noticed anything. 

Except for Grace, because now he’s not paying attention to what she’d been saying and he’s kind of staring and grinning.

“Hot damn. Who is _that_ and where can I get one?” she says. He waves Derek over, then turns back to her.

“Uh, his name is Derek. He’s…I guess you could say we’re, um, a thing. Kind of a serious thing.” If that’s what he should be calling it. Honestly, he has no idea how to describe them right now because it’s just _weird_. They’re still adjusting to the filled void, still trying to figure out what’s in the empty space and how well it fits. 

She gives him a look, makes a pointed glance at Derek, then turns back to him. “Freckles, if this is what men look like where you grew up, I honestly do not understand why you’d ever leave.” He grins, knowing that Derek is far enough away that a human wouldn’t be able to hear. That Grace would think he isn’t listening to their conversation. But there’s a certain demeanor she expects from him, a sense of humor that’s still trying to fit in with everything else under his skin.

“It was hard, believe me. And they don’t all look like him. He’s pretty much the peak.”

“Yeah, I’ll say. If he’s not crazy, you got lucky with this one.”

He chuckles a little, not sure what to say. Because yes, Derek is a little crazy sometimes, he makes flash decisions without thinking about what follows after, he’s fucking stubborn and bull-headed and has problems with listening to other people once he gets going, but Stiles is a bit of a fuck up too. They deserve each other, or at least he likes to think so. Because if he doesn’t deserve Derek, then that leaves him with the Louis-types. No, he’ll take Derek. As if he has some sort of choice in the matter. His mom, long, long ago, once told him that you don’t get to choose who you love in the end, that it happens and you can fight it if you want to, but you’ll never win. 

But maybe winning has more to do with them loving you back. If he thinks about it like this, then he’s won. This way, there’s something actually good to come of everything, of what happened with his dad, of Maggie’s brothers, of everyone who got caught in the crossfire. Of the fact that he’s now something he never wanted to be. That part’s hard. There’d been a couple times when the claws came out on accident, and Derek had tried to soothe him, but that didn’t go so well. It’s a problem. They’re working up to talking about it. Slowly. But they’re getting there. Sort of. 

When Stiles had left, it had been a little awkward. Stiles stays with his dad all day, and Derek’s usually there around the house, does grocery shopping, or watches his dad so Stiles can shower or get an hour out of the house so he can breathe, and he sleeps over, but they have an agreement that only one of them sleeps at a time, that they don’t fool around. They don’t talk either, not really, just stuff like what’s for dinner and what’s on TV, but not anything they need to talk about. Something in Stiles is satisfied just by proximity, and he’s not ready to really interact much more if it’s going to lead somewhere with touching, not until his dad is back on his feet again. The guilt is too much. 

And really, Derek should be home now. Taking care of his dad. They’ll have to talk about that. Sure, the rest of the pack is no doubt taking excellent care of him, but he’s not their responsibility. 

“Uh, hi. You must be Grace. Pleasure to meet you,” Derek says when he reaches them, holding out a hand to shake. 

“Fuck with him, and I will remove your gonads with a series of very aggressive paper cuts,” she says, smiling and shaking his hand. Stiles can feel the way Derek warms to her at that and has to fight the urge to roll his eyes. Jesus. They’re going to get along just fine.

“Not even a remote possibility. I promise.”

No, not on purpose. Derek will never hurt him on purpose, he knows that much. It’s mostly a comfort.

 

By the time he makes it to the car with Derek in tow (having charmed just about everyone in the station, the bastard), he’s tired and frustrated because about ten minutes after Derek walked through the elevator, Stiles had realized something about them. Because they’d been surrounded by all of these people who thought they were dating, and the thing is, they weren’t really. They’d skipped that bit. Only they shouldn’t have. By all rights, they didn’t really _know_ each other. Not in the traditional sense. Too much time spent apart, too many things they’d never talked about. And maybe that’s part of it. Why Stiles feels like yeah, they’re linked, irreparably, permanently, but he doesn’t feel like he’s in a relationship. There’s too much missing. They’d gone about it backwards. 

“I need you to do something for me,” Stiles says, settling down behind the wheel. “And I need you to try to understand something for me. Can you do that? Just…try.”

“Of course.” It comes out the same way most of the things that have come out of his mouth the past few days have: like he’s just so glad for a chance to do something for him that he’s just jumping for it. Stiles isn’t sure he can handle it. It doesn’t feel right. Feels like Derek’s trying to win him over or something, and that’s not right. They’re past that by now. 

“I need to go through this like normal people. Like human beings. I need to date you. I need to talk to you about little, sometimes unimportant things, like politics and music tastes and what your favorite Star Wars movie is. I need that. And I need to fight with you. Because that’s what we do; we argue, we bicker, and that’s okay. I just don’t feel like we’re _us_ right now. I feel like we don’t know how to function together if we’re not fighting something or trying to fuck each other, and that’s not normal. So date me. Tonight. Let me take you somewhere for dinner and talk to you until you’re ready to smack me. Okay? I just miss what we used to be, and I _know_ things are different now, but they’re not _that_ different, are they? I mean, no matter how much pining or whatever, we’re still the same people. I’ll still drive you crazy because I ramble when I’m thinking and I don’t let things rest and you’ll still drive me crazy because hold onto things you shouldn’t and most of the time you smile, it’s fake and I hate it, and I don’t know. Am I making any sense?”

“Yeah, you are.” Derek’s staring at him, face blank. “You talk too much.” He holds the stare for a second until a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. It’s been a long, long time since he’s seen this side of Derek, long enough that this is the first time he really recognizes his tone as his mildly-threatening version of flirting.

“Oh really? And what are you gonna do about it?” He pulls something of an innocent face, pouting slightly. When Derek’s eyes settle on his mouth, a little thrill of victory runs through him. 

“Absolutely nothing. Because we’re going to go on a date and I’m going to be a gentleman until we get to your apartment, and then I might have a mind to do something. We’ll see.” Stiles likes flirting, he does, he likes the suggestion and the promise and the fact that they can do it easily, but he can’t think about Derek without worrying about his father. Not yet.

“Who’s watching my dad?”

The look Derek gives him is almost wounded. “What, you think I would just leave him without being sure that he’s cared for? You think I would do that? I’m sorry I’ve given you that idea.”

“That’s not what I meant, okay? I just worry.”

“Erica and Boyd will be at the house during the day. Lydia is switching off with Scott and Allison to be there at night. Melissa and Chris both said they’d stop by a few times. He’s well taken-care-of. I told him you’d call him, and he told me to tell you that you worry too much.” 

That sounds like him. And it’s weird. If someone had told him three weeks ago that his dad would be complaining that he worried _too much_ , he’d probably punch them in the face for being a sarcastic asshole. But his life is different now. And it’s okay. It has to be because he’s not going to let it _not_ be okay and he’s gotten to the point where he’s convinced it’s all about attitude. 

“Come on. Let’s go get dinner,” Derek says gently, and that’s what he needs to put the keys in the ignition. 

 

A few hours later, he’s sitting in his apartment. Derek’s on the couch, reading, and it’s this really weird image. These two worlds meeting even though there’s no way they should. The physics don’t work out. Two universes that shouldn’t touch, matter and anti-matter, only there’s no explosion or anything, just this odd little buzz under his skin. It’s weird, how this place smells, and maybe that’s the problem. That the place he’s lived for a year smells wrong to him. It raises the hair on the back of his neck and he wants to fight against it, instinctively, the way his cat did when he first saw him. The cat that is now likely permanently his neighbor’s problem now. It’s just uncomfortable how unsettled he feels here, and he can see in the minutiae of Derek’s body how he feels it too.

There’s a soft buzzing noise, and he looks at his phone, sitting on the arm of the chair. _Dad calling_. 

He picks it up quickly, smiling just a little before saying, “Hey, Dad.” 

“You both got in okay?”

“Yeah,” he says. “We’re fine. Everything’s good here. We’ll be home in a few days.”

And as he says it, it feels right for the first time. Like he’s not just saying it as an automatic adjustment, some sort of adaptation instinct; it’s real now. 

 _Home_. 

He’s not there yet, not quite, but he's coming home. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(Podfic of) Worlds That Turn On Their Own by RemainNameless](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1432396) by [chemm80](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemm80/pseuds/chemm80)




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